Up early, a flurry to get T to the bus station . . . and now the day stretches before me.

It's supposed to be warm--close to 80 degrees--and there's grass to mow and weeds to pull and tulips to deadhead, plus a passel of desk things to deal with, sheets to get onto the line, a haircut after lunch. 

Yet here I sit in my couch corner, contemplating the treat of not undergoing my exercise regimen, listening to bird racket in the trees, to laundry sloshing in the machine, mulling over a cup of tea, thinking about washing dishes, thinking about those poem blurts I wrote last night, allowing myself a bit of idle space before I start another day of doing.

I'll be on the road/teaching all weekend--a mad dash north, then a mad dash home--so today is my slowdown moment, such as it is: today is my blip of peace. Already, here in my couch corner, I feel my shoulders settling into quietness. For the next 24 hours no one will need me to make them a meal or show up for their event. For the next 24 hours I am my own clock.