It’s not today any more. That was yesterday. I just haven’t gone to bed yet. I meant to but I didn’t make it. So …I’ll check in tomorrow. Anon, hey nonny…..

So now it’s morning—today.

Lots to do today. I’ll try. Yesterday Matt came for a swim and dinner. I read the Sunday NYT. Liz called (faithfully, every Sunday morning) I wrote some thank you letters—no—I wrote them two days ago. I haven’t delivered them yet, to the other side of this big builidng.

I was tired.

We / I observed Thorrablot Saturday night. That’s the Icelandic pig-out when Western Icelanders in increasing numbers. all over North America, gather in their separate cities to honour Thor. On different dates, actually, depending on the weather in the region. Here in the north, it’s late, well after Thorrablot in Iceland

Wilkipedia: “Þorrablót (Icelandic pronunciation: [ˈθɔrraˌplouːt]; transliterated as thorrablot) is an Icelandic midwinter festival, named for the month of Þorri of the historical Icelandic calendar (corresponding to mid January to mid February), and blót, literally meaning sacrifice—comparable to Burns Night in Scotland (and elsewhere).”

That’s enough. If you want to know more, you should look it up. I have a lot to do today. I said that.

I do have to thank those of you who thanked me for reminding you of The Windhover, the poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, one of my favourite poems by one of my favourite poets.

I rested too much yesterday. I have to make up for it now.

Anon, anon.

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-

dom of daylight’s dauphiin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding

Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding

Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion

Shine , and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

Gerard Manley Hopkins