Monday. The start of something new. Outside the wren, the bird we
call here “small king of winter” is singing like crazy but he has no
chance until the Ice Saints arrive, early May. Inside Joni Mitchel sings
“things fall apart, the center cannot hold …. nothing is sacred …. the
best lack conviction” after W.B. Yeats “The Second Coming”.
The only rough beast I see is a fat red cat. But the real one might be lurking around the corner.
Surely some revelation is at hand.