Snow has switched over to sleet, P was still very excited to be out in it, did some impressive frisking and eating of snow. He's now sitting atop a pile of blankets, cleaning his paws, he's a bird dog. Gathering my thoughts, they keep suddenly bursting outward, startled.

"If the doctrine is true that says that feeling does not nestle in the head, that we experience a window, a cloud, or a tree not in our brain but rather in the very place where we see them, then we are also beside ourselves when gazing at our beloved. But here torturously tense and ravished. Blinded, the feeling flutters like a flock of birds in a woman's radiance. And just as birds seek refuge in the leafy recesses of a tree, feelings escape into the shadowy wrinkles, the graceless gestures and inconspicuous blemishes of the beloved body, where they can hide in safety."

On every bow the foules herde I synge,
With voys of aungel in here armonye;
Some besyde hem here bryddes forth to brynge.
The litele conyes to here pley gunne hye.
And ferther al aboute I gan aspye
The dredful ro, the buk, the hert and hynde,
Squyreles, and bestes smale of gentil kynde.

Me, I'm a sad duck.