The fog is so thick this morning. Bits of cloud swirl under the still-lit streetlights, and the air is humid and heavy and very still. I am recovering from a horrible night's sleep, mostly spent on the couch, and interspersed with anxious dreams about trying to get a very old, very frail, very sick mystery woman out of a convenience store and into a car. A few nights ago I woke up and announced to Tom that I was starting a band called the Civic Crows. I wish I'd had that dream again, instead of the one I got.
Anyway, here I am, bleary but awake, with nothing on my schedule except for late-day real estate business. After catching up yesterday on various obligations, I managed to schedule a read-and-write-all-day vacation. I've got a Rukeyser poem to finish copying, and some drafts to weed, and possibly a new poem to coax into view . . . though I may need to add in a lengthy nap to recover from last night's geriatric nightmare.
But the Civic Crows! Who wants to be in this band with me?