Again, fog blankets the little northern city by the sea. Upstairs and downstairs, fans hum in bedrooms, summer soundtrack, air upon air, fog stirred into humid breath and sound. The cat and I are the only risers, and he has already slipped into the shrubbery, snaked his way across the dew-dripping grass. I have made coffee, emptied the dishwasher, unfolded clean dish towels, and now I listen to a freight train grumble past at the crossing, now I sit in my couch corner, under my circle of lamplight, and watch my fingers figure out what to say.

It was a funny evening, our impromptu dinner party with the poets. Flank steak and peppers cooked over the firepit; roasted potatoes and an arugula salad, and then brownies and fresh strawberries; also hilarity. We had no plans to have a party this weekend, yet the party turned out to be just the thing to have this weekend. Now I am sitting here in my couch corner, in this house draped with sleep and fog, and my fingers are writing to you, and for the moment the future feels immaterial. Only this brief space of now exists; I cannot tell if I will pour another cup of coffee, if I will wash my hair, if birds will begin singing, if the glaciers will melt, if the stars will blink out.

But the future slides forward regardless, dragging the past and the present in its wake. This morning, in my inbox: "an essay by Dawn Potter," which I seem to have written and will perhaps read again, but for now it is simply a glint of letters and spaces.

The cat complains at the door, the coffee pot steams and beckons, I cannot rest in the present, everything in my slow world, this slowest of slow worlds, pushes me to rise and engage: to imagine, to desire, to fear . . .

Meanwhile, fog blankets the little northern city by the sea. Meanwhile, the cat crunches chow, and the fans whir, and I pour that cup of coffee, and outside in the wet lilacs a robin begins to sing.