"A lazy Sunday" is how Tom described yesterday, which I guess is accurate, if one lumps reading and writing under the heading. Certainly they look like it from the outside. Interestingly, before making that remark, Tom spent much of the day cleaning up his shop area and his study, so apparently he lumps housework under the lazy heading too. I'm beginning to have my doubts about the connotations of lazy, but so be it: we had a Sunday that did not involve working for other people or engaging in brisk physical activity, and much of it was spent in front of a fireplace.

As I lazily read several hundred pages in a short story collection, worked on two poem drafts, and made a lamb and mushroom pie for dinner, the rain fell. At some point overnight it turned briefly into snow, and now everything is coated with slick white slush. Inland towns must have gotten much more accumulation than Portland did because lots of schools are delayed or canceled this morning. Or maybe school superintendents got drunk on the first sight of flakes.

Anyway, I have nowhere to drive today. I'll get housework under control, bumble through my exercise regimen, and then burrow into the editing pile. I really hope I can finish the big project this week, get the little project done quickly, and emerge semi-weightlessly into the Christmas stretch. With another Monson trip before the holiday and a bunch of traveling scheduled afterward, I need to make the most of this home week. The "lazy" Sunday was a pleasant boost.

And two poems drafts! They are still under construction, but I'm so glad I was able to pull them out of the notebooks and into first shape. The Trevor stories have also been time well spent. I've been thinking a lot about how he handles endings. His stories are generally paced as traditional slow-unrolling narratives, but the endings arrive unexpectedly early, as if someone has clipped a thread. It's startling but also exciting, like getting off a train at an unexpected stop. I want to think about how this might transfer to poems.