The fog was creeping in from the bay as my friends and I drove home from our poetry evening, and this morning the neighborhood is shrouded in mist--maples, houses, lilacs, cars, and also my two lines of very damp laundry, which got caught in a rogue shower yesterday afternoon and are now drenched in cloud.

It's Friday, and I'm looking forward to spending the entire weekend with Tom. We had thought of going for another canoe jaunt, but the weather doesn't look promising. So I don't know what will transpire instead. I'm just happy I won't be away from him.

In the meantime, there's today.  I'll drag the recycling to the curb, I'll go for a walk, I'll wash the sheets, I'll work on my editing job, and later this afternoon Jeannie, Teresa, and I will talk about poem drafts and what we're reading and thinking about, and it will be a good ending to a wistful week.

Wistful, shrouded, cloud . . . rogue, caught, drenched. The words fill with air, they tug at their sentences, their frail strings snap and away they float, bobbing against fences, bumbling into branches and power lines, then suddenly reaching open sky, eddying into wind, riding the current, taking on speed, and with a swirl they vanish.