A light swirl of frost was already melting on the cars’ windows.
I had rolled out of bed, thrown on a pair of Crocs, grabbed Brady and his leash, and headed outside. I wore a quilted jean shirt, capri-length yoga pants, and no socks.
I wasn’t cold.
It’s almost November here in south central Alaska.
The deciduous trees are bare, but the grass is still green.
I’m not complaining.
I like that the roads and sidewalks are still clear.
I like that every day without snow feels like a one-day-shorter winter.
But it’s different. Really different.
When my friends write about snowstorms in Cincinnati and heat waves in Boston, I can feel the undulating texture of their daily lives.
But their weather reports are more than just interesting information, more than a picture-window view of a prairie thunderstorm.
Their status updates are a great cloud of witnesses, testifying that the weather is weird, and getting weirder.
I know that weather and climate are two different things. Climate is, essentially, cumulative weather.
Social media measures the intuitive sense of large numbers of people in diverse geographic settings, all sharing their belief that something is different.
Something is changing.
A great cloud of witnesses is testifying.
Are we listening?