The afternoon sun is bright, and has made me sneeze several times as it streams in the window. Though the day looks inviting, it is still cold, as the puffs of smoke released from chimneys and stovepipes reveals. The flowers of the sourgrass are still clenched tight. I see no insects about, but the sky is periodically decorated by flights of shiny crows who break the stillness with loud caws.
I was wakened early by the noise from somewhere nearby of a small motor of the sort used on model airplanes. As was waking, I had the odd notion that it sounded as though a goose were being tortured. Thus the first thought I recall having today was "I'm glad I don't eat fois gras." I'm also glad the day has grown no odder. I'm going to make a cup of totally normal tea and contemplate the commonplace. Who knows how much longer there will continue to be such a thing?