Somewhere, not far, away a bird spins out a slow, down-twisting melody, and then again, and then again. It is early morning, on a summer Saturday, in the little northern city by the sea. Downstairs a load of laundry churns. Upstairs T is still asleep, and I sit alone in the dusky living room, as coolness filters through the screens, as my thoughts collect and scatter.

Around me, signs of life: books, a music stand, a cup, a box of garden seeds, a violin in its case. And now the bird has stopped spiraling through its slow song, and a chickadee takes over the air waves, dee-dee-dee, dee-dee-dee, sensible and matter-of-fact.

Inside and out, summer spools its bright thread.

I've got the usual things to do today, garden and house, desk and chair. The groundhog is a problem I am struggling to solve. No book reviews is a problem I am struggling to solve. I've been told that one is forthcoming, but other than that, who knows? Same old story. I try not to be downhearted but it is hard.

Still, I finished a big poem this week. The work goes on.