It was cool. Almost cold. A shock to those of us who reveled in 90-degree weather 10 days ago.
I snuck an extra cup of hot coffee at the early morning meeting I attended and realized I was dressed in black as if in mourning. At work, we sat hunched over in our cubes, wrapped in hoodies and sweaters, unaccustomed to the sudden chill that the first real rain brings each fall. And even though I'm supposed to be on a "bland diet," prepping for a you-know-what (oh. wait. you. probably. don't. never. mind.) on Friday, I was glad I snuck a little chicken mole (just a taste, honest!) into my lunch along with melon and cottage cheese. I needed its comforting heat.
And so it went until I walked out the door heading to a late afternoon meeting.
Some crazy Bermtopian, still besotted with our abbreviated summer and not quite ready to lay down and roll over to winter, punched a hole in the sky, scattering the clouds across a blue table like so many jigsaw puzzle pieces. A little bit of Indian summer heat slipped back into the Bermtopia-sphere for a few more treasured hours. I stopped wherever I could to take pictures. It was straight-up glorious.
He (or she) struck a good blow. And did not back down.
The clouds bled.