I have returned from my long weekend of driving, son-visiting, driving, house-hunting, and driving. Little Ruckus was pleased to see me, and this was the first time I've ever returned from a cool autumn trip to an empty house that is warm and comfortable. O the miracle of fossil fuels.

We still haven't found any houses that make us happy, though . . . or at least none that we can afford. Perhaps they don't exist.

And now I will stride off to begin the week: editing, laundry, eye doctor, lawn mowing. Perhaps a few poems will trickle into the hours.