Today is my son Paul's 24th birthday. I can hardly believe that he was born more than two decades ago, during the first ice storm of the season, at 4 in the morning, and sleepless Tom had to stagger-drive home from the hospital to do goat chores and fetch three-year-old James from the neighbor's, and then the two of them showed up again to bring us home, and James was so loud and excited and Paul was such a little bundle of cuddle, and James campaigned hard to name him Mr. Penguin, to no avail. 

And now the little bundle of cuddle is 6'2" with a full beard, living in digs in Brooklyn, working in a theater in Manhattan, sending me photos of what's he's cooking for dinner, chattering about football and novels, lovable and loving, busy and social and thriving after a long, slow, sad year on the floor of my study. I wish him a day of bright skies.

I'll be back at my desk this morning. Originally I'd planned to meet a Harmony friend in Augusta for an afternoon walk, but my car is making a funny noise, so I've got to solve that problem before I take it on the highway. This evening I'm going to a join a poetry writing circle and see what that's like. I haven't spent much time doing communal writing, outside of a class situation. But I like the people involved, so I thought I'd give it a try.

The day is supposed to be sunny, after our three days of rain, and I'm itching to get outside and see the world.