In the early dawn, the bed still warm though the man just left it, I think about catching a few extra winks. I think about that little rascal who runs through the town in his nightgown, looking in the windows and calling through the locks. Wee Willie Winkle? Or is it Winkie? Wee Willie Winkie? Which? I can’t remember.

Hours later I’m still not sure. Winkie, probably. Wink-ull knots up the tongue—the words don’t flow.

Why, anyhow, do we use winks, not blinks, to mean sleep? The eyes when fatigued blink shut (or open, reluctantly), whereas “wink” signals conniving. Conniving requires special effort, guile. Who—at either end of a black night, actually—is up to conniving? Who’d not just want all the blinks they can get?

True, all those wee willies scuttling around up in D.C. aren’t wasting their time snoozing. Hard at their nightmarish, eviscerating work, they’re connivers at heart. But I know of some big willies looking in the windows, good at calling through the locks. One is Heather. Here’s her March 27 roar, clarion clear.

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