Weeks have elapsed since I've worn anything long-sleeved, but this morning I am considering the possibility. The air is downright cool--the first time it's been in the 50s since my return from Monson. The neighborhood is extremely quiet, no hint yet of Monday bustle, other than the crows yawping in the maples.

I have a long list of this-n-thats to deal with today . . . watering the garden, an early morning walk with a friend, a wrestle with an editing project, then mopping and vacuuming, washing sheets and towels, grocery-shopping, mailing a birthday package to my son, and so on and so forth.

But at least I caught up on a lot of yard work yesterday--all of the mowing, most of the trimming (until the trimmer died), deep weeding of the back gardens while T chain-sawed up the pile of deadwood the arborist left us. And I caught up with Keats also--a first pass through "Grecian Urn," which I'll probably copy out at least twice more to really pull myself into it.

I am still not reading the news, but it finds me nonetheless, spreading like a virus.