A thin mist vibrates in the still air. The temperature is cool, autumnal.

This has been a quiet week. I've been alone, editing, mowing, sorting. Now I have run out of packing boxes and need to haul trash to the dump. Tonight I'll go to band practice. It will be pleasant to add a few blips to the solitude meter.

Yesterday morning I copied out some Rilke and began drafting a new poem--a small nod to the making life. Under the afternoon sun I sat in thick grass and played with the cat. For some reason those accomplishments seem parallel. I wonder why.