Winter greening.

I don't feel that I have adequate words to caption this image for you tonight, and so I'm just going to offer it for what it is: eternally springing, utterly reckless hope. How and why? Who knows. For now, take it in.

We're nearing the end of things here; one always knows the end is near when, just as everything seems to come into some kind of focus, under some kind of control, the least expected explosion happens and threatens all the equilibrium in sight. And so I'm brandishing this little outseason spear of spring, holding it out in defiance of that which would throw us off, right at this crucial moment.

Soon (you have no idea), such new concatenation.

And, oh, alas: it turns out that my scheme of pajamouflage isn't going to work after all, given that the patterned pajamas are sold out. Perhaps for the best. (Unless everyone else had this same idea and is now enjoying it without me.)