It's 6:30 a.m. in Gowanus, Brooklyn, and somewhere close by a mockingbird is singing wildly. Otherwise, it is surprisingly quiet outside--just the occasional car shushing past; noisier inside, where downstairs my friend sleeps in front of a muttering TV.

I got into Manhattan yesterday at midday, met P for lunch at a Ukrainian restaurant (pierogis and hot cider, a surprisingly excellent combination), and then we lugged my book-laden bags to Brooklyn. Beer at the family bar, dinner at a Chinese restaurant, up late with complicated loving talk. A darling son, some of my oldest pals, the election results: it would have been a good day all around if I hadn't also gotten news that a close poet friend has been severely injured in a car accident. So that is a weight and a worry.

But I did manage to sleep for a few hours, and now I am drinking coffee, thinking about a shower, getting ready to pull out my poems and make a final reading plan for tonight. Later this morning I'll meet a writer friend for a walk. If time allows, I'll have lunch with my son. And by mid-afternoon I'll catch a bus to New Jersey and the event will unroll into whatever it will be.