I woke to a crisp 58-degree breeze--a May-like chill, as if we've backslid from summer into spring. It's Friday: recycling day, sheets-and-towels day, grass-mowing day.

I've been busy. My study is stacked with the books and papers I'll need to haul up to Monson next week--my own books to sell, the books I'll be teaching and reading from. I've been emailing back and forth with my publisher to discuss cover samples for the next collection. I've been reading Erdrich's short stories, a new Tessa Hadley story in the New Yorker, thinking again about the vast influence that fiction has had on my writing and my worldview.

There are days, I know you know, when political anxiety makes me feel like a turtle pulling into my shell. I'm trying to define the parameters of my shell this morning.

Anyway: sunlight! I dreamed of crowded rooms, and now I am sitting in small spaciousness, alone and quiet under a ripple of wind. Things are looking up!

Lines written on the cusp of my 60th year: My older son is on the cusp of his 30th year. We talk about our cusps over the phone. And then we talk about cats and home repairs and what makes a happy household partnership and why are Indiana highways so boring.

The everyday things! The dear humans! Lines written on the cusp of fear: Do not look at my phone. Lift my face into the breeze. Do not be afraid of exclamation marks.