I'm fighting a headache this morning--not the best way to get out of bed, after dreaming that Tom had decided we needed to move to another part of Portland, and this seemed to mean becoming the roommates of several unknown women in a house with a leaky roof, and I lost my cat in that strange neighborhood . . .

Ugh. 

At least I made sizable progress on my giant editing project yesterday, and I hope to continue that onslaught today. I also started writing a preface for the NPS finalist manuscript, with the thought that grounding it historically might be a good opening gambit. I'm not sure that's true, but at least now I'll have two versions to ponder. Paul and I vacuumed; I moved some gift paving stones out of my neighbor's yard, for use as future back-garden paths. I watered my dry little shrubs. And then I spent all evening on the couch in the back room, talking about poem drafts with my poetry group while Tom and Paul made dinner and did the dishes.

The headache seems to be easing. The cat is not lost but full of breakfast, and has now buried himself in the comforter. Nobody is making me move away from my garden. Tom is in the shower, and Paul is asleep, and already the hours are rolling forward--a slow muscular crawl, like a coal-fired engine climbing an uphill grade.