In the distance a train hoots . . . and why are train horns such lonely sounds?

It's Friday, my last day of being 58, and I'm tired, and now I seem to be coming down with a cold (though not Covid, thank goodness; no more of that, please). I've got lots to do today--desk work, housework--but my body may have loafing in mind. We'll come to some sort of compromise.

For now, black coffee and a lonely train. Ahead, clean sheets and a pork roast slow-braised with aromatic vegetables and chicken-of-the-woods mushrooms. And tomorrow will be a rainy day.

Already the fogs have rolled in. Last night, as T drove back to Portland from my reading, mist shimmered over the coastal highway, over the cove, among the trees and the murky city streets.

I've had a couple of spaces open up in my next--and final--Frost Place Studio Session: "Revisiting Homer's Odyssey." I do plan to keep teaching zoom classes, but this will be the last one for the Frost Place. So if you're interested in taking part, before I go on hiatus for a few months as I work out the logistics for the next incarnation, now's your chance. October 28 and 29, $225; camaraderie, conversation, and at least four new drafts. I'd love to see you there.

And I'm very close to announcing the new Conference on Poetry and Learning at Monson Arts; we're just tweaking final details for registration. So stay tuned for that.

Oy, I'm tired. These past few months have been stressful and exhausting, and I have been pretending not to be stressed and exhausted, and apparently this incipient head cold is saying, "Hah."

Okay. I give in.