. . . and thus the haze of a happy weekend is dispelled by an automatic weapon in the hands of a cruel and stupid young white man. Of course it is. We live in America.

* * *

I spent yesterday slowly coming out from under my spell. I did write, but clearly the magic was dispersing and my brain was weary. I listened to baseball and played a few bars of the Mendelssohn violin concerto. I hand-washed winter hats and scarves and hung them on the line. I weeded among the shrubs in the back yard. I read a Margaret Drabble novel and finished a crossword puzzle. I made buckwheat pancakes for dinner.

* * *

At night I lay in my bed and listened to the city fireworks along the bay, the pop of firecrackers in the streets. Or perhaps I was listening to murder. I don't know how to tell the difference.