
Perched precariously on a dining room chair, stretching a blue open-weave summer blanket over the very large nekkid bedroom window, I listened to the Writer's Almanac very early today. Ah, it's Chagall's birthday. The light streams through the loose weave, casting a welcome chill & I thought, that's rather Chagall-ish. (Well, one must reach at times, you know.)