It's been raining all night, and the dawn light is sodden and gray. Supposedly today will be sunny, though there's no sign of that yet. Somewhere close by a catbird is meowing: farther away, a jay squawks; and in a neighbor's backyard, big green walnuts klonk onto a junked car and bounce away into the grass to wait for squirrels.

I'm making good progress on my editing project, so I'm going to start my morning with chapbook planning: working out practice exercises and off-screen assignments. I did get a better night's sleep, thank goodness. As I told Tom, my midnight brain always predicts the worst--shower stall collapsing, floors buckling--but never considers a simple solution such as "caulk."

This afternoon I've definitely got to make sauce. The tomatoes are coming in hot and heavy here in the rainforest, as you can see from the still-life crowd on my kitchen counter. And I ought to mow grass, if the yard ever dries out. And I would like to quit procrastinating and actually submit a few poems to a journal. I've been so bad about that lately.

On the other hand, not fretting about publication can be a good sign . . . maybe I'm in a discovery phase right now: not writing a lot, but writing well when I do . . . still reading voraciously . . . immersing myself in the physical world . . . the body in summer, the mind in antiquity . . . something big could be brewing, and I don't know what it is yet.