The boys went to a movie last night, which meant that I was home alone for the first time in a while. I did nothing special, other than breathe the night air and stare out into the dusky street. Sometimes there's a spaciousness to solitude.

Days, I'm still striving to keep up with an unwieldy editing project, in between visiting with my kid and managing house and garden stuff. For the moment, poetry has taken a seat in the corner. That's nothing new: summers were always a writing dead-zone when I had children at home full time. So I'm not exactly worrying about poems, but I'm aware of their silence, and it makes me restless.

And the boy is restless too . . . happy to loaf and spend time with us; bored and impatient about not being where his own work is. It's a standard late-summer feeling.