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.
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