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Frogs were croaking this morning. An acre or so of frogs, I'd say from the sound of them, east and west, where the streams run and boggy patches form. Last year the frogs arrived a bit earlier than this, and then got caught in the cold spell that arrived late in February. The amphibians area as confused by the inconstant weather as I am. I don't have to live in a pond, though.

Seven camellias have bloomed, pale red and damp, vividly set off by the dark green leaves. This afternoon they are getting a bit of sunlight. The morning was gray, and now the sky still features masses of clouds, but the sun keeps finding openings. There has been no rain for hours, and the pavement is dry. The partial clearing has also let the air grow a bit chilly. Smoke is drifting from chimneys, and passersby wear heavy coats. I'm thinking there might be stars tonight, but it might be too cold to go out and watch them. Those poor frogs are probably in for it again this year.

My head is remarkably muddled. I slept too little. A nap would be nice, but it's time to cook dinner. Oh, and this:



Sunday Verse

Ploughing on Sunday

by Wallace Stevens


The white cock's tail
Tosses in the wind.
The turkey-cock's tail
Glitters in the sun.

Water in the fields.
The wind pours down.
The feathers flare
And bluster in the wind.

Remus, blow your horn!
I'm ploughing on Sunday,
Ploughing North America.
Blow your horn!

Tum-ti-tum,
Ti-tum-tum-tum!
The turkey-cock's tail
Spreads to the sun.

The white cock's tail
Streams to the moon.
Water in the fields.
The wind pours down.