Mary Cassat

Little Girl: Wakey, wakey, Mama. Let's get this party started.

Mother: How about baby goes and gets mummy another coffee?

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The grass is spongy and green. We've got evening grosbeaks, red-breasted grosbeaks, blue jays, purple finches, bright (bright!) yellow goldfinches, morning doves, sparrows, hummingbirds and even a stunning orange oriole at the feeders. If I could snap a picture of them all lined up it would be something, but they're off in a soft thunder of beating wings the moment I try.

Spring is here, at last.

I've been working hard at reclaiming my title of drowsy fabulist these past two days as T has been off camping and hiking in the Maine woods and I've done little but move from reading in the chair, to drowsing in the tub, to napping on any surface that beckons.

Once, I sat down to empty my head of all varieties of tasks and to-dos and it filled a page of four columns. I threw down the pen and went back to bed.

I am nobody's production queen of late. I'll be back when I've rested and rested until I can rest no more and I'm tripping the light fantastic once again.

Bisous.

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