Flesh Wound.

Well, in advance of what could be one of the last half-cold snaps late this weekend and into next, in between the space breaks this morning I camp-axed some red oak into pencils for kindling, and in so doing sent a tiny smithereen into my right bird-giving finger, which, since I am a hunt-and-pecker, is also, as it turns out, my dominant o-p-k-l-j-i-m-n-y finger, among other prominent letters. Damn you, high school self, for half-assing typing. But thanks, middle-school and high-school self, self-appointed surgeon to the younger twin brothers, flamer of needles, digger-outer of splinters. A difficult typing afternoon, friends and fans of the just-resucitated novel, has been maybe ameliorated by the sewing needle and the tweezers.

My finger still hurts, I told AMR. Do you want to do something about it? she asked. And so I did.

Why have a blog if not to report the shockingly, aggressively mundane? In other news, Eric Chilton's kid goes to my kid's preschool, it snapped warm today, it'll rain and snap warmer tomorrow, and warmer still on Thursday. The lawns green. The Toad uses verbs. The novel's not dead. I also use that finger for punctuation. I surgered it (sure it's a word) right before I sat down here, and already it feels better. Long-lost Weatherheads of the interwebs, I tell you this: tomorrow is a free day. A leap day. The moon keeps hanging itself into the western evening sky alongside Venus and Jupiter in a way that makes one want to say something about it. We are warmer and warmer. We have not passed out of kindling season. We may not need kindling for days.