Embraceable You

If I hear anyone say "embrace winter" anymore, I'll plough him/her right in the face. That's how bad things are. Pretty soon the automatic chickenwire fence gate that opens for condo owners in the Balfour won't be able to close again.
Other reasons for my mood have been proposed, actively, but I blame weather. I say this with Clifford Brown on the box, a trumpetous winter. And I can see hair blowing off someone's head, south wind on the alley.
I'm trying not to project my dread onto others. But even here I have not succeeded.
Along comes Al Di Meola, following Clifford on my playlist. Once, driving from Rocky into Calgary on a Friday night, I had to pull over, because Di Meola seemed to be paralyzing every frame of my body with that guitar of his. Elegant Gypsy is the name of the disc, if you're interested. (Come to think of it, who would be?)
I'm going out there now. Down to Atlantis to read my students' poems.
If not back by sunset, I'm snowed in.