It's raining lightly this morning, and I glimpse a row of eiders swimming beside the jetty. The gulls are noisier than usual, and in singles and in pairs they are muscling purposefully toward the east. Someone down on the docks must have opened a box of bait.
Last night I braised pork loin in milk, Marcella Hazan style, and served it with fresh spinach and roasted fingerlings. Today I have no cooking plans, at least not yet. I do, however, have a library plan . . . to investigate what it's got for Vietnam-era poetry and a good basic history of the war. I have been editing a scholarly book about soldier-poetry, which has given me some names and sources. And I am wondering if it's about time for me to start seriously dealing with family history and the war. For my whole life, I've pussy-footed around my uncle's death in a "I'm just a niece, I was just a baby, what do I know?" kind of way. On the other hand, I named my son after him. And I'm a poet. So clearly I've got obligations.
So we'll see. I've been wondering what my next project might need to be.