Outside, in the near dark, a cardinal is singing and singing. He knows a good day is coming . . . sun after rain, warmth after chill. I am so looking forward to it. 

This has been a cold spring. It's May, but the temperature has rarely gotten out of the low 50s. The garden is beautiful but refrigerated. I'm not complaining: we've had plenty of rain, and not much frost. But there's been no lingering in chairs or hammock, no meals by the fire pit. 

Today, though, we're supposed to see 65, and I am eager for that soft air. Everything is soaking wet, so I probably won't do much gardening. And I can't forget that the place will be overrun with street construction. Still, windows open; a hour in a garden chair with a book . . .

Mostly, though, I'll be at my desk: editing, working on that lecture. I think I'll go out to my writing salon tonight. I think I'll go for a bike ride this morning. My body is eager for action, and my mind feels flibberty, in that poem-need way. Funny how those things so often go together.