Monday, March 29, 2004
choose your style: neoclassical | blue | modern | nouveau

Silver Wings

This morning's bouquet from Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials, my commute companion for many weeks:

My Soul into the boughs does glide:
There like a Bird it sits, and sings,
Then whets, and combs its silver Wings
--Andrew Marvell

Spring is near; the wood warblers will be coming soon.