RED SKY AT MORNING

Red sky at night - sailors delight;
Red sky at morning - sailors take warning.

I can't sleep.  It's really aggravating me.  The weird thing is that I don't feel tired.  I sleep maybe  four or so hours, roll around wide awake for about forty minutes, finally give up, and start my day well before the alarm.  I expect to be dragging midday, but that doesn't happen.

I intend to get to work early and get some correcting done; grades close today, and I have some creative writing to enter into my grade book.  I don't leave as early as I plan to, but I am still ten minutes or so ahead of my usual time, so I am surprised and quite annoyed at all the traffic at 6:18 a.m. on the main drag.

So, I veer off to the back roads. 

This is when I notice the sky.  It isn't the usual breakthrough morning glory color.  It's more of a muted gray-rose, and it glows a bit.  I snap a quick picture with my cell phone while sitting at a stop light, but it doesn't capture the ominous aura of color. 

It just doesn't look right; it just doesn't seem right.

When I get to the top of the hill at work, I can see the front line in the sky, the line that separates yesterday's good weather from today's impending doom of a snowstorm.  The sky, though eerily tinted, is magnificent.

I hold out some hope that we might stave off the snowflakes that have been forecast in our immediate future.  By mid-morning, my hopes are dashed.  Although it snows most of the day, the ground is warm and will not tolerate accumulation.  Of course, as the strange sky turns dark and night falls, all bets will be off.  The snow starts to stick, and by tomorrow morning, I could be dragging the shovels back up from the basement (no, I did not "put them away" - that's where my shovels live all year long, so don't blame me for cursing us).

There is no red sky as the day rolls away.  There has only been that disconcerting pinkish thick sky from the morning.  That sky and the weather forecasters tell me pretty much all I need to know.