And it is the second day of the year, how different from the first
which had a clatter of noise and sound burst. We have proceeded from first to second arithmetical progression of hope. Should there be deception, disappointment that this second is more dubious than the first? My hill town is now breathing spaces into its little pockets of dissolution, the winter’s sun spreads a shadow of hope that the second will be more propitious than the first. I take off into reveries of another year.
