Of late I have been Fruit Cake and Mistletoe. Frilly in my dress, prancing around, and I put the square blame upon the seasonal change, which tardy though it might have been this year still brings out a bloom of good humor in me. In a sense I should offer gratitude to the fates for landing me upon this particular compass point, which for six months of the year is basically leafless and frost plagued, because otherwise frilliness and prancing could become ordinary. But probably more important to the security of the flame of my revolt is an outside intemperance that regularly occurs, a result of which can be a straight line wind, or some sort of spiraling vortex offering opportunity to enter some other dimension, or nine inches of rain in an afternoon, or a wind so dry it blanches the Laurel.
I guess it was the Tree Swallow's arrival that put a gooiness where my spine should have been. Sent me slack jawed toward a look at me and how happy I am. Saw me skittering with tiptoe and without socks between my feet and my shoes. A cordial of romantic impulse between myself and this earth. Kind of like a fifties musical with tap dancing it must have sounded and I'd heartily apologize if it wasn't for the sense of possibility contained within the nonsense from what must amount to at least several days by now. But fear ye not this valley of the shadow of bliss because I have watched the television news and I have seen the weather forecast.