A little someone always seems to be struck by a bit of restlessness every nightfall. And come eventide, a weary mama gathers and assembles vibrant bits and pieces that keep her interest and enrich her creativity, this eve we’re under a waxing moon draped by swelling clouds. In her wakefulness, I tap away on keys bleary-eyed and beguiled to create something of my own with black script on a white canvass. In an ordinary era, I would be supine and tucked under my covers by now, yet these are extraordinary times and call for extraordinary strength and considerations. Minding cues from Gaia swelling and exploding with her bounty, I am stirred to draw up a new blueprint that will bury the old forever. At my side, I admire tiny fingers whittling away at her project and I know somewhere beneath the morning stars and children of dawn we will be made whole again. Here we are over a year after the two-week alarm to flatten a curve turgid with trickery only to be beset with incessant darken truths and yet spring marches on fervently and elegantly.