For the first time in two weeks, I am home alone. I am also presently unemployed, so this morning my horizons are masquerading as a glorious stretch of wasted time. I do, in truth, have thousands of home and garden tasks, but I also have Wordsworth and maybe even, by chance, a word or two of my own to unearth. But then again, maybe not. Today I don't feel particularly anxious about literary accomplishment. More, I feel like I'm lying between clean, air-dried sheets. No thinking necessary. The present tense is too sweet.