Well, yesterday did not turn out as planned: the class I was supposed to teach was canceled because of administrative chaos (ugh), which was a disappointment and an aggravation. Still, good things happened . . . number one being: James, my older son, has a vaccine appointment on Saturday! He's only 26, so age-wise he's not a priority. But apparently his neighborhood (most of them are Mexican immigrants) has been especially hard-hit by Covid, so the city is now offering vaccines to everyone who lives in his zip code. I'm just so relieved he's on the list: he's been working in a very dicy situation, with numerous positive cases among the actors and crew on his show, and his health has been a giant worry. I feel as if someone's just taken a rock off my back, and I know he feels the same.

Number two good thing? I finally sent my next poetry manuscript to the publisher. I'd decided to include a section of more recent poems, written during this past year; so to accommodate them, I stripped some pieces out of existing sections, changed the epigraph, and changed the title. The book is now called Accidental Hymn, which is also the title of the final poem in the book. I hope the new version works, I think it works, and I am very relieved to have released the book from its purgatory of fretful poking and prodding.

Today: grocery shopping, laundry, maybe vacuuming, an afternoon meeting. I did make good progress on the stick chore yesterday. All of the small bits are bagged, and now I need to turn my attention to hacking up the stack of bigger pieces. But I may let them sit for a bit and do some raking instead. I am itching to see what's sprouting under that layer of winter leafmold.

Dinner: probably chicken legs with lemon, capers, and olives. Dessert: chocolate pudding. I am reading a novel that I started out liking but am now annoyed by (Stevie Smith's The Holiday). Outside, seagulls are making a racket in the blue morning air.

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest

The seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him,

Shedding white rings of tumult, building high

Over the chained bay waters Liberty—

--from Hart Crane's The Bridge