Gray cold Easter morning after the kind of night I most love: gusting winds sending populations of wet heavy clouds charging past the moon's sad waning face, junipers grinding away on the ridges, and lately conversations of courting frogs coming up under it all from far out in the dark, chimes in the courtyard clanging gentle low tones, three cats dashing out into it to hunt all night, as excited as I was by the something implicit.
Drafts whip through the house this morning (I've left a window cracked somewhere) and I'll have to give in and make a fire. I have my poem here I can't do anything with, but I must because I love it, or I believe I will soon. I feel like I'm grappling with a greased pig, or trying to catch fish with my hands.
9:16:19 AM 
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