Another alarmless morning: Tom is having an outbreak of forgetfulness. But here we are, awake but late, and I am finally sitting down with my coffee and pretending to be relaxed.

Last night's baseball game was perfect. The weather was balmy, the crowd was cheerful, the home team won. A pack of feral 8-year-old boys in stiff too-large baseball caps danced ineptly to YMCA in the aisles. An enormous puppy leaned its head on my shoulder. Turns out his owner is the wife of one of the Sea Dogs' pitchers, and her leviathan dog adores baseball games. What could be cozier than a calm, soft-hearted, baseball-loving Great Dane? I was entirely charmed. And then there was the sweetness of walking home in the gloaming.

Today I'll be back to the grind: editing and fretting. I have no idea when/if I'll be in Vermont; there's definitely a sword-of-Damocles shine to this whole affair. But I did finish the first rough draft of my Rilke syllabus--a big item to cross off the to-do list. If I can get this editing project finished too, I'll feel easier about whatever lies in wait for me, travel-wise. I won't get it done today, but maybe, just possibly, it will be off my desk by the end of the week.

In the meantime, I keep conscientiously attending to the present. Here I am, in my shabby couch corner. The cat rubs against my ankle as Tom eats his breakfast in the dining room. Morning chill wanders through an open window. In the ash tree, a chickadee repeats his name, chickadeedeedee. All of those Rilke poems I read yesterday buzz in my skull . . . "A gust inside the god. A wind."