Bangor last night . . .

. . . and now, this morning in Harmony, I am the only person awake, despite being the last person to return home. Here I sit at a card table in a freshly tiled kitchen, marveling at the renovational madhouse around me: refrigerator hogging a third of the living room, huge sheets of concrete board blocking the doorways, dust and detritus littering the floors, and in the middle of it all a teenage boy fast asleep on the couch.

Today--eventually--will be a washing floors, shifting furniture, dragging away trash kind of day . . . once I recover from staying up so late.

I hope to also try to reclaim my mind. Digging in the garden may help. Reading the poems of George Herbert may help.

Or they may not. The mind is a fey beast.