It was a quiet weekend. On Saturday, we walked a 5-mile loop from our house, around Back Cove, and back home, and we spotted all kinds of birds . . . egrets, terns, plovers, sandpipers, loons, and a fat pair of feral domestic geese. On Sunday, I wandered out to the grocery stores and the fish market, but otherwise we stayed home: I read and worked on a poem and picked blueberries and such; T wrestled with a computer problem and fell asleep on the couch. Baseball on the radio; cicadas in the trees: the summer soundtrack . . . and then the tastes of summer: swordfish with yogurt and dill sauce; a corn and tomato salad. 

And now the work week is upon us again, and we'll be back at it--T building cathedral ceilings in a big house; me editing a manuscript, compiling my Rilke syllabus, having zoom meetings, etc., etc.

But I've started rereading one of my beloveds--Giuseppe di Lampedusa's The Leopard, which E. M. Forster calls "one of the great lonely books."

Yesterday, in the car, Elvis Costello's "Every Day I Write the Book," came up on my playlist shuffle . . . and I thought, Well, of course. And every day I read the book too. How else would I survive?