By Wallace Stevens
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
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It was overcast and drizzly for much of Wednesday -- which my cats preferred greatly to the thunderstorms we're having at the moment -- but not too cold, so I still managed to take a walk in Cabin John Park (crocuses fully in flower but not open because of the lack of sun, snowdrops drooping, daffodils in full stalk but very few flowers yet). Plus I did three different Pokemon event raids (Armored Mewtwo, Clone Charizard, Party Hat Squirtle) with one local friend. Otherwise, my day involved writing and chores.
We watched The Masked Singer, on which yet another legendary black woman with an unmistakable voice was sent home outrageously early, which is really pissing me off. At least Lego Masters did not send the other all-women team home. Then we caught up with Miracle Workers, which is in some ways even crackier than last season, though also more overtly political; I can't decide whether it's more or less hopeful! Here are more signs from Green Spring Gardens last weekend that spring will get here eventually:
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