Yesterday,  as I was headed out to yoga, I had a surprise visit from a friend from the homeland, so instead of exercising, the central Maine diaspora (e.g., Paul and I) got to spend a chilly, chatty morning walking and laughing and eating and listening to Harmony-Wellington gossip.

Today I guess I'll do some housework . . . and consider the empty bookshelves in my study. Yes, you read that correctly: empty bookshelves. I have no idea what do with such a thing. Who has empty bookshelves?

I feel so extremely on-vacation. I have nothing important to accomplish, no work hanging over my head. We're talking about going out to a bar this afternoon to watch football, or maybe heading downtown after dark to look at the holiday lights. I've started reading John Guy's Mary Queen of Scots. I wouldn't mind going for a walk around Back Cove. It's strange to be so relaxed, brain-wise. For months I've been thinking hard. Last spring I wrote an entire poetry collection in a month; I  taught and edited all summer and fall, intensely, without any significant break. I've been traveling, for work and family, and even then I've been working or cogitating about work.

Sitting in a bar watching football seems about right to me . . . and I don't even like football that much.