Friday, 42 degrees, and too dark outside to see my hand in front of my face. Autumn creeps forward, a few steps closer to winter every day. Still, I haven't turned on the furnace yet; we haven't had a frost yet. The zinnias still wave cheerfully along the sidewalk, and the garden is flush with greens.

I may have produced a decent draft-blurt out of last night's writing salon. Anyway, I'm hoping to dig out a chance to look at it today. I have to prep for my Monson class this morning, and I need to clean the downstairs rooms, and I've got a zoom meeting this afternoon with my poetry test-kitchen gang, and of course the editing goes on and on and on. But I might find a way to steal an hour for a poem. I might.

These days all I do is work, and the weekend will be work too . . . battening the little homestead down for the winter. But on Saturday night T and I are going out for my delayed birthday dinner, and next weekend will be play: two full days in the city, slow travel on either end. I'm very much looking forward to the treat.

In the meantime I'll scrabble through my hours, remembering now and then that I'm lucky to have them. And lucky to have a quick step and a strong back and a this-n-that brain that can jump from task to task like a flea. Lucky to have a kid who's excited that I'm coming to visit him. Lucky to have a partner who's pleased that I'm getting the chance. Lucky to have enough work to pay for the bus ticket.