Yesterday I had a yoga class in the morning and later went for two long walks--an afternoon one with my neighbor (appropriately distanced), an evening one with Tom (appropriately close). Everyone else was outside too: a bike-riding family cluttering up the street like a parade of ducklings, a lonely high schooler dribbling a soccer ball through an elaborate driveway obstacle course, three skateboarding girls keeping an eye out for their mother, a striding grandmother and her scootering little granddaughter, a solemn dog walker, a solitary runner, pairs of whispering lovers . . . From above, the streets and sidewalks and driveways must look like little ant-paths, shimmering with body chatter.

At home, we circle among our rooms, upstairs and down. Chill spring air filters through an open bedroom window. Outside, a mockingbird burbles and trills.

I've been pushing myself to take time each day to copy out poems. As a result, I have some unarticulated thoughts about Rilke and my own semi-intolerable poem draft. Better than nothing better than nothing better than nothing, is what I keep telling myself.

For restfulness, I'm rereading Austen's Northanger Abbey, which is coarse Regency-era stand-up comedy compared to her later, more subtle hilarity. But the tiny old soft-leather-bound volume is so pleasant to hold in my hands.

In the mail this week: a letter from a friend, a gift of shallots for eating and planting, two paychecks, and a Susan Collins campaign flyer (barf). From the sky this week: sun, wind, bluejays, pollen, and the scent of hyacinths. Under the rug this week: cat fur, grit, crumbs, hope, and a rubber band.