"We've got the best air in bluegrass music," Del McCreary on the radio almost said just now. He meant that the near trees whip against the walls of the College I work in. Further out, south edge of the parking lot, others don't know whether to backflip or bow. All that comes between Wascana Lake and the tall poplars across the road is shove after shove from a wind that's pumped for winter.
Once in a while, a visitor to this city comments on the weather. "Cold," usually about does it. Before the decades-long dome of pesticide that floated over the south end, it was always, "Mosquitos are bad." On a personal level, I'm tired of explaining why I don't mind the cold on my bare legs in early April or October. How many ways can I say It's Regina, it's October. What kind of breeze did you expect?
Such wind is my new physician. I'll turn to it for news.
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