Seek out the splinters of winter, the last of the ice age?

It snowed beautifully last night, one of those lazily spiraling soft tinsel blankets that now needs to be scraped crunchily off the windshield.

In the midst of everything, Hestia admirably aids me with my work.



spatch caught a clip of a boulder on a train and is now watching Taskmaster (2015–).

Yn y dyfroedd fioled ynddyn ein galonnau

Just in case spatch and I had had any doubts about the utility of the vaccinations we re-upped this afternoon at the Theatre Pharmacy, where you can still treat yourself from the candy counter after a shot—we got a packet of caramel creams, a Zagnut, and a Sky Bar—we were street-hassled for our masks less than an hour later while stepping out of Book Ends in Winchester Center, by a dude who thought comedy meant repeating the punch line. I may have told him to get under the earth.

Of my several attempts at a self-portrait from the passenger seat with my insurance phone's camera, spatch said I should share the one where I look as though I have just seen a bird beyond the window.



He got me a reprint of Claire Keegan's Small Things Like These (2021) and a card featuring a small black cat, adorably rolled over, with sincere green eyes.