Rain and sleet this morning: it's ugly out there, and I'm sorry T will have to drive in it. My guess is that the weather will keep the tree guys away. They didn't have time to finish the funeral yesterday, so a skeleton still stands between the driveways . . . crown vanished, just the harsh hacked trunk reaching into the sky. I'm not complaining about the tree people, though. They did a good, careful job of taking it down piece by piece in a very tight space. And I am always impressed by arborists--so strong and nimble. That is intensely hard work.

I finally finished my editing job yesterday, which means that today will be class planning. I've got the summer teaching conference to wrestle with, plus a chapbook session at the end of this month and a generative writing weekend in early February . . . the quantity is a bit overwhelming, actually, but at least I have some dedicated time to figure it out, this week and next, before another editing job drops onto my plate.

And I am hoping to go out to write tonight. Last week's salon didn't happen; too much busyness in people's lives; but my brain is so in need of a burst and a surprise. I'm counting on a session tonight.

Otherwise, I'll be reading about 17th-century poetry, walking in the harsh rain, vacuuming up cat hair, checking in with my parents . . . a cold, wet Thursday in January, in the little northern city by the sea, where fat flocks of eiders bob in the cove, where gulls perch on the cluttered chimneys, where everything is damp and vaguely salty, where the gravestones mourn captains lost in ocean storms, and the ocean storms glower at the land, this place that for some reason has turned out to be where I live.