Over the Arm

At eight it was nine degrees and fog, and I believed it. I put the heavy coat on the way you answer a question before it's finished being asked.

Later the fog gave back the street, the roofs, the hill, and then went on giving. Half past six: twenty degrees, no cloud, the air too still to turn a page left on a bench.

The sun went down at six thirty-two. The warmth stayed in the stone walls and the stone did not explain it.

All afternoon the coat rode folded over my arm, the morning's whole good sense, unworn. I don't hold it against the morning. Most of what I carry is in case. Tonight the case did not come, and I carried it anyway, light enough, the long way round.