This book showed up on the doorstep, out of the blue, anonymously. I'm thinking it might be a hint to get back to practicing the clarinet.

Even without the music this is a nice collection of Pooh poetry. (Some of which below.)

Looking back at the up-north weekend, here are some sledders taking a trail break. (Thanks to Dawn and Mark for sleeping quarters and snow machines.)

Above freezing all day, with a little misty drizzle right now. This is Mother Nature's prodigal son, Zamboni, working desultorily to get the ice ready for this weekend's racing.

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Lines
—Pooh

On Monday when the sun is hot,
I wonder to myself a lot:
"Now is it true, or is it not,
That what is which and which is what?"

On Tuesday, when it hails and snows,
The feeling on me grows and grows
That hardly anybody knows
If those are these or these are those.

On Wednesday, when the sky is blue,
And I I have nothing else to do,
I sometimes wonder if it's true
That who is what and what is who.

On Thursday, when it starts to freeze
And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees,
How very readily one sees
That these are whose—but whose are these?

On Friday—
On Friday—
On Friday—
What did happen on Friday?