Sorel, God of Cold Feet, paid us a surprise visit last night.
Hard to believe the glider boyos were cruising the friendly skies just the other day.

The day before Halloween Herself and I saw three gliders working the thermals near the Menaul trailhead.
But Halloween has come and gone. We “fall back” on Sunday, and then slide at high speed into Thanksgiving, winter solstice, and Christmas. It ain’t always sandals-and-shorts weather, even in The Duck! City.
I’m not ready. I never am. I used to race in this shit? When? Was I still on drugs?
Herself is made of sterner stuff. She bundled up and sallied forth with a fellow Democrat to distribute campaign literature.
Comrade Eeyore is likewise on the hustings, telling The Guardian that Democrats “have not done a good enough job of reaching out to young people and working-class people and motivating them to come out and vote in this election.”
Hey, comrade, Herself is no passenger in this garbage scow. Ain’t her fault the officers are all rumdums.
Being of the Vanguard, I was needed here at Headquarters to propagandize over hot tea and a Taos Bakes bar. Arise, ye prisoners of starvation, and fetch me another mug of tea.
While I await the Revolution I’m also baking a loaf of bread so I don’t have to stand in line for it like the proles.
Here in a bit I’ll go for a run, if only because I never know when I might have to. It’s all this weather is good for. You can’t ski in it, or make snowballs with it, so you might as well pound ground, keep the muscle memory sharp.
The forecast for the day after Election Day is not encouraging. We may be feeling the heat, but not in a good way. I’m thinking of feet held to the fire.