I was hoping to fish Saturday morning, seeing as how it was about the only morning I had free. As I was headed towards the post office downtown, just a little east of here, it looked like the sky was clearing. I was in shorts, sandals, looking forward to some really early spring-like action.
No such luck, but I’m guessing that the prayers for rain have been answered. When I finally looked over my shoulder, the big, oppressive clouds were rolling in thick, low and slow.
Predictions were for rain in the morning, then clearing on Sunday. And me, already booked for Sunday School.
Day-hum.
I was turning into the greenbelt, sort of a shortcut home, and I snapped a shot of the sign. While I was going to use it for something else, a snippet of verse came back, “Whose woods these are/I think I know/His house is in the village though…” (Robert Frost, I’m thinking.)
