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it is high time to crank the starter; to lever every advantage from this scrawny sack of bones and sinew onto the rusty mechanisms. neglected or blight—who tends to the difference at this evening hour? well i’ll tell you, in the last three weeks we’ve watched the expected unpredictable transition from mono to polychrome. a moutain side and lake across the valley uncoupled themselves, from their pirate attempt at a proper california merging of horizons, of muddy greys and sooty whites, to printemps histrionics. and save for the old woman of a humidifier squatting in the corner sputtering and hissing at the house and its occupants, the mostly silent nights were honked and bleated away, at first, by those most majestic returning sojourners, and soon joined by an entourage of chirps, whistles, yelps, hoots, fizzles, twitters, and finally the soft sonorous doves perched somewhere outside on a nearby wire.