Just how atypical is this weather? Using my tried-and-true weather links, I did some research.

According to the National Weather Service, this is a dry winter. In fact, it's the fourth-driest winter on record, and the third-driest water year. Snowpacks are low. The hydrologic outlook is poor.

Check out the historic high and low temperatures for the Portland area. Or look at the rainfall data.

Here's a rough chart of the past month's temperature data. The number represents the high temperature for the day. The first figure in parentheses is the departure from the average high temperature. The second figure indicates that day's variance from the normal daily average temperature. Bold lines are record highs.

Feb 10: 57 (+8, +1)
Feb 11: 52 (+2, +3)
Feb 12: 48 (-2, 0) .16in rain
Feb 13: 47 (-3, -2) .13in rain
Feb 14: 46 (-4, -4)
Feb 15: 53 (+3, -4)
Feb 16: 54 (+3, +2)
Feb 17: 55 (+4, -1)
Feb 18: 55 (+4, 0)
Feb 19: 57 (+6, 0)
Feb 20: 54 (+3, +2)
Feb 21: 60 (+8, +1)
Feb 22: 62 (+10, +3)
Feb 23: 63 (+11, +3)
Feb 24: 64 (+12, +5)
Feb 25: 56 (+4, -3)
Feb 26: 61 (+9, +3)
Feb 27: 65 (+12, +6)
Feb 28: 58 (+5, +8) .17in rain
Mar 01: 62 (+9, +8)
Mar 02: 57 (+4, +7)
Mar 03: 64 (+10, +4)
Mar 04: 60 (+6, +6)
Mar 05: 61 (+7, +4)
Mar 06: 67 (+13, +5)
Mar 07: 69 (+15, +12)
Mar 08: 72 (+18, +10)
Mar 09: 70 (+15, +11)
Mar 10: 74 (+19, +12)
Mar 11: 75 (+20, +12)
Mar 12: 68 (+13, +8)
Mar 13: 68 (+13, +5)
Mar 14: 68 (+13, +4)
Mar 15: 62 (+6, +3)

During the past month, we've had three days with measurable rainfall, and a total of .46 inches of rain. Our average rainfall for the same period is 3.96 inches of rain. That's a big difference.

I know that this beautiful weather is atypical. I know that we must necessarily pay for this splendor with days of rationed water in the summer. I know that the trees are blossoming a week early (and sometimes two weeks or more). I know all this, but I do not care.

I love this weather.

I love the clear, bright sunrises. As I drive to work, I watch the edge of the world begin to glow. I watch as the edge of the hills are gilt with silver. I watch the sun creep above them, making its appearance a minute or two earlier every day. I watch the long shadows on the ground, the architectural definition of the plants and buildings, the gentle fading mist hanging low upon the fields.

I love the crisp mornings. The night air is warm for this time of year, but is still relatively cool, needing several hours of sunlight to become comfortable. In the early hours of the day, while the air is still chilled, the birds flit from tree-to-tree, chirping and calling to each other. The dew adorns the daffodils and the quince and the early-blossomed trees. The air fairly glows.

I love the warm afternoons. I walk through the countryside, or through the neighborhood, soaking in the unusual heat. The air is filled with bugs: with mosquitoes and gnats and flies and, recently, even bees. A thick sweet melange hangs all around: magnolia and flowering plum, daffodils and daphne. Children play in the street, or at the park, or simply in their yards. Cats and dogs lounge on the grass.

All life seems charmed.

I love the evenings. The sun sets with grace, occasionally offering a display of reds and blues. Its light lingers, but its heat lingers longer. I sit on the porch, listening to the birds, the squirrels, and the various bugs. Somebody in the neighborhood is grilling dinner outside; the smell of beef makes my mouth water. The kids next door are jumping, jumping, jumping on their trampoline. Simon has sauntered out to join me, staring out into the blackening night.

Kris joined me for my walk yesterday afternoon.

We were stopped immediately by Rhonda, the neighbor across the street whom I've met only once before. The three of us chatted about Kurt and Tammy's beautiful magnolia, about the many feral cats, about the weather. Rhonda gossiped a little about the various neighbors, but mostly in a friendly way.

We said good-bye and walked on, only to stop again at the next house. Kurt was out with Cyril and Helen, the old couple we'd not yet met. We stopped to introduce ourselves.

Cyril and Helen have lived in their house since 1948. They know all about every house and every family on the street. Helen's sweet and smiling, but Cyril is your prototypical garrulous old man. He's a joker. He complained bitterly about everyone around him. "When are you going to cut down those damn trees?" he asked, and it was hard to tell whether he was joking or was serious.

I like him.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2003 — Vagabonding   I sat on the dirty, white -- but cool -- marble and felt the air thick around me. The energy and power of that that temple made me cry.

2002 — Twenty Minutes   I've done little aerobic exercise during the past three days. Instead, I've done from six to eight Nautilus machines per day, concentrating on leg strength.