Evans’ Rag

Vol 3 Issue 44

By Sunday, it was a beautiful day for riding a bike. Not hot, not cold, with a breeze still left from the storm two days past blowing the entire way. Meeting up with a couple at my turnaround, they asked how long I’d ridden—not enough to brag about, but I was happy.

Thursday, the storm had raged and rained most of that day. Hard by the Potomac, Alexandria was flooded; Annapolis the same. Layla and I were soaked walking that day, but she curled in a ball for the rest of the day, while I watched it coming down.

Come Sunday, it was headed up the coast, and I headed for my ride.

First days of November, and the trees are giving up on their leaves, and most are still green. A few trees are turning—drawing down the chlorophyll we know to be fall. D still has her indoor plants out on the balcony loving the sun.

The heat’s hardly come on; I still sleep with a sheet, and Layla doesn’t think it worthwhile to waste time on the balcony after dinner—too warm to bother.

We’re all tired of summer.