I stepped out to the recycling bin a few moments ago and caught sight of the backyard possum scrubbling around in the leaves in the backyard. This is the second morning in a row I've sighted her: yesterday she was moseying along the edge of the neighbor's garage, under the suspicious eye of Ruckus. I expect he'll settle down and become friendly; at least, that's what he did with last year's possum.

It's these warm nights that are bringing her out. Already, at 5:30 a.m., the temperature is 51 degrees in the little northern city by the sea. We slept with the bedroom window open, first open-air night of the season, and the week is only going to get warmer.

Daffodils began opening yesterday; late crocuses began fading; the Hill Country patch along the driveway is filled with sky-blue scilla, with a few tiny red tulips blooming in their midst. Ramps are sprouting in the Shed Patch. 

In the afternoon I planted carrots, kohlrabi, lettuce, cilantro, and dill in the garden. This afternoon, after I finish at my desk, I'll weed and cultivate in the front beds, though I need to make sure I give myself some down time as I'm zoom-teaching tonight. If I can, I also want to tinker with some poems and maybe hack out a few more paragraphs of my essay . . . but this may be dreaming.

Now, as first light broadens, three little woodpeckers are skipping up the ash tree, and the possum has vanished. I'm thinking about the poem I brought to my workshop last night, a poem that everyone said was chock-full of vigor and sensory life, a poem that enacted the polka party that was its subject, and I'm feeling, as the Brits say, chuffed. Lately I've gotten so interested in the idea of a poem as a ball of energy, also so interested in not writing about myself but leaping into other worlds and acting out those stories. Though, of course, I can't stop me from bleeding in around the edges.