These are a just few samples from the sidewalk-chalk installation that my Monson kids wrote all over the parking lot of our classroom building. It was a fun project, and so pleasing to see their words glinting in the pale sunshine. The director of the residency program suggested that we extend it to a whole-town installation . . . spread the kids' words up and down Main Street. Poetry takes over central Maine. Who would have believed such a thing could happen?

Down here in the southlands, crocuses are beginning to open in my garden, and the future is worrisome. My son's college is hunkering down: no visitors are allowed into programs or shows, and students are being asked to stay on campus during break. What will this mean for his graduation? Who knows? Meanwhile, Tom is supposed to fly to Chicago in two weeks to visit our other son. Will he still be able to? Who knows?

This note to you is full of questions that neither of us can answer. I'm sure you have parallel anxieties: about aging parents, about work, about basic grocery shopping.

Anyway, I'm finding my students' chalk words strangely prescient:

I can see the smoke
I listen