Time has been slow this week: desk work and housework and firewood moving and garden work. The steady round, the trudge. I haven't left the property, except on foot. I haven't started my car for days. I've barely seen or talked to anyone, other than Tom.

But I've made good progress on the editing project. I'm almost done with the firewood. I've processed tomatoes and green beans and another small batch of maitakes. I've almost finished reading the collection of Abdurraqib essays on Black performance.

Today will be sheets and towels and floors and bathrooms; today will be editing and groceries and firewood; and, in the evening, I will go out to sit among poets, and eat and talk and write. It will be a refreshment to spend an evening with voices, after so many quiet days.

Do you ever feel as if you are living in a suspended moment--something has happened, something will happen, but for now you are a still lake on a windless day?