Tomorrow I enter Conference Time. I hope to write to you during the week, but we'll see. Yesterday I had faculty meetings, tech meetings, hated the way I looked on screen, etc. This morning I've got to set up online templates for writing assignments on a platform I just learned to use yesterday. So wish me luck. Oy.

Otherwise, though, I'm going to try to have a quiet day. Paul and I are going to go for a walk, and watch the Brits bake patisserie, and order takeout for dinner. I think a journal is going to accept the sonnet I just wrote, so that's cheering. I've started reading Michael Cunningham's The Hours, which I found in a free box. I bought a dress that fits.

This morning, the neighborhood is very quiet. A few sparrows are singing. Somewhere, on a cross street, a bicycle murmurs past. Jack the cat trots briskly from his yard into mine. A squirrel eats a nut on a fence, as if he's miming a Beatrix Potter illustration.



from Walking to Work by Frank O'Hara

                         . . . I'm becoming
the street.
               Who are you in love with?
me?
      Straight across the light I cross.