A heavy, sticky morning. But already, in the pre-dawn gloom, the vigilant bluejays are awake, and denouncing the cat. Somewhere a small dog shrills.

We aren't going to Guilford today, but we're all tense about the situation. I talked with a Monson friend last night and we invented dream banners and carvings in fields along the route from Bangor to Guilford. But in real life roads will be closed, and the monster won't bother to look out the window of his helicopter.

Kids I taught to sing Woody Guthrie songs? Some of them will be holding Trump signs.

I'm trying not to brood. But I am brooding.