Nippy, with a good wind. The pond may yet freeze.
A gray goose flew by me yesterday, less under its own power than being hurled along by the gale. During the night, offshore winds were clocked at fifty meters per second, well into the duodecimal top bracket of the Beaufort Scale, but seas were apparently small. As one paper put it, the waves are blown down by that kind of wind before they can heap up. Today I saw ravens windsurfing merrily, hopping lightly up from the corner of a rooftop into the blast, hanging for minutes at a time, wingtips twitching, then letting themselves drop back onto the roof corner before trying it again. The dry, castor-sugar snow that had been making everything look like an overzealously-sweetened county fair funnel cake is being scoured off the streets and whipped out to sea.
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