Light in the sky—and silhouettes of branches, treetops—until almost half past six. I'm finally convinced that spring is coming, once again. (Like the Zunis or Hopis believed they made the sun rise every morning by praying it, willing it, making it happen.) I've tentatively moved my rugs and kilim pillows outside, with a wary eye on the weather forecast. I've missed too much of early spring already, hidden in warm rooms inside with collage papers and edited pages, however satisfying those too are.
I'm otherwise rereading British mysteries about classical musicians. Ordering Indian take-out. Going to Beethoven piano concerts, Gilbert & Sullivan. Contemplating mulligatawny soup. Thinking of reading History of the Rain. Planning to braise pork with juniper berries later this week.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Bistro Table in Spring