Whirling along

Only a few rehearsals left before the spring concert, and things are shaping up. The first bassoonist, whose instrument was stolen from his house along with their electronic items a week or so ago, rounded up a replacement 'soon and is in fine fettle. (We have been wondering, slack-jawed, what the hell the dirtbags who broke into his house would even do with a bassoon; it's a valuable item but rare, not easily pawned. Some thought the thieves might have used it as a bong.) We shall be Bolero-ing gaily pretty soon.
Bit of climbing, not as much as would be ideal; people seem to be incurring injuries right and left.
One or two almost warm days, wedged in among rain and gray; yard still too wet for digging, going to be a late spring. The fawn lilies are lagging, too.
Had a little tear on John Crowley, a collection of short stories and one novel; now Octavia Butler, one of whose collections of novels sprung out at me on the U Bookstore sales table.