Good morning from snowy-sleety Portland, Maine! It's difficult to tell how much precipitation has fallen because it's been so windy: all night long branches and wires clicked against the house and sleet spun and rattled against the windows. Now, under the streetlights, the landscape is lunar--some places scoured clean, others drifting into dunes.
Today feels a bit like the weekend. Tom didn't set his alarm, so I stayed in bed till close to 6. He does plan to go into work, but not until later in the day, when the storm winds down and he can start shoveling out the worksite. And I'm in no rush because I shipped my editing project yesterday and don't, for the moment, have any other pressing deadline.
I'll get started today on my friend Ian's poetry manuscript, and I may also begin sussing out a piece I need to write for an issue of Teresa's weekly poetry letter. My friend Tom has suggested that I consider writing an essay on why I didn't like Byron, and maybe I will. And I still have revision work to do on the Art in Common Places poem.
I like a snow day.