All the news is bad: DACA, North Korea, hurricanes. Meanwhile, the fog hovers over Casco Bay. It is not at all like Sandberg's little cat feet. It is more like a large broody hen puffed up to fool a hawk. The air is thick with moisture and foreboding.

I finished Wolf Hall and have been reading Maurice Manning's startling collection Lawrence Booth's Book of Visions. And yesterday I took an omnibus Alcott out of the library, as something to read on the plane and in airports. It seemed to me that the educational philosophies of Bronson, as delineated by Louisa, might be just the ticket. I have no idea why I find those novels so comforting, but I do.

Given the weather forecast--thunderstorm, thunderstorm, thunderstorm--I doubt I'll be doing much gardening today. I'd like to walk down to the fish market, but that may not happen either. I do have a pile of editing on my desk. I do need to make appointments with the burner-service guy and the chimney sweep. I should figure out how to get from O'Hare to my son's apartment.

But I also have a kind of loose aimlessness in my thoughts . . . a sensation that often precedes writing. So maybe this day will veer into a different world.