The thing with feathers . . .
Tuesday, April 7, 2026. It's Tiw's day . . . another lovely Spring day for Green Country. Forecasts for TulseyTown indicate a sunny day with some clouds along with moderate Southerlies and mid 70's.
Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining. – Anne Lamotte
Follow your own path rather than your parents’ fears or society’s expectations. Live truthfully. A wholesome life grounded in ethics, courage, and openness is possible. – Venerable Gotami, “ Why I became a nun at 23,” Tricycle, 2026.
Today is the birthdate of William Wordsworth, born in 1770 Cockermouth, England. The poet with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped launch the Romantic Age in English literature and was one of its most central figures and important intellects.
Billie Holiday was born today in 1915 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The American jazz singer is considered one of – if not the – the greatest from the 1930s to the ’50s.
Francis Ford Coppola is 86 today. The American motion-picture director, writer, and producer was born in 1939 Detroit, Michigan.
I long for the day – coming sooner than later, I trust – that the mailbox isn't overflowing with necessary political harbingers.
Another surreal day in the second Trump administration. Heather Cox Richardson reflected in Letters From An American, posted last night for today.
The Iranians know Trump has actually lost his mind. – Robert Reich, Final Thought. 4.6.26
Across the United States, the landscape of local television news is undergoing a profound transformation that signals the start of its slow-death decline. The aim is a smothering of America with MAGA ideology.
The Twenty-Fifth Amendment is a fantasy dressed up as democracy’s savior. Believe me – considered and dropped in the first term, won't work now. Our only hope — at least right now — is an election that smothers the MAGA movement. So let’s get to work. – Miles Taylor, in Defiance.
Hope
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
– Emily Dickenson. This poem is in the public domain.