On Saturday, in the middle of spring, many of us experienced our first hints of summer. A hint of humidity – a hint of the stickiness of the coming season – seemed to be in the air.
Saturday seemed like a day rich in atmospheric possibilities, provided these were expressed in the dimensions of humidity.
The temperature could in no way be blamed for any sense of impending oppression we might have felt.
Days of afternoons in the 70s, such as Saturday, rarely act as scapegoats for our meteorological resentment.
But many of us might want our 70-degree days without the lead-heavy sky.
On Saturday, they seemed to dampen the high spirits of spring and hint at a world with much of its spark and spark suppressed, leaving a landscape without its bright May colors.
Such skies seemed appropriate for a day of rising relative humidity and a dew point going towards the realm of discomfort.
At sunset, however, the dense rows of clouds seemed to give way; some slipped apart, and stretches of water-washed blue set in motion the oranges that toned the western sky.