Only minus-two today: a warm spell. The giant bluejays under the feeder are puffed up like partridges or pullets. In The Waves, Virginia Woolf writes, "Come, then, let us wander whirling to the gilt chairs. The body is stronger than I thought. I am dizzier than I supposed. I do not care for anything in this world. I do not care for anybody save this man whose name I do not know. Are we not acceptable, moon?" This passage does not seem to have any relevance to my life. But why should it? Rough ice, four inches thick, plasters my dooryard, and the moon is distant and blurred. "They touch their waistcoats, their pocket-handkerchiefs. They are very young. They are anxious to make a good impression. I feel a thousand capacities spring up in me." The washing machine bleeds gray soap into the earth. A clock ticks. "We go in and out of this hesitating music."