We walked back home in the dusk today and counted stars, but the moon was nowhere to be found and it felt terribly important. There was no moon in the sky tonight, March 4.

Karel wrote today that the end of winters will also mean the end of our culture, well, their culture. I know that what is happening on this warm and balmy day may be the beginning of an end, but for a moment it just feels like a beginning, an emergence of something. It feels like spring. It is in a wrong time and place. It is lost, poor darling, but insistent: the sap is running, the topsoil feels wet and ready, like a womb about to give birth. I may need to check on the crocuses and planting the milkweed seeds I’ve been keeping since last spring.

I had so many thoughts today. About Kamala Harriss’ call for ceasefire, about Navalny and the reason I think everyone should read Kostyuchenko’s book about Russia. But I realized that I don’t want to write down any of them. Presuming that I will have a chance to read this many years from now, I want to remember the untimely spring and the moonless night, the heartbreak, the love, but not the politics.