I woke up this morning feeling that I had finally reentered a space of quiet. After close to three weeks of turmoil--including three weekends spent either on the road or in class, including two weekday overnights to Monson, including death and election and horrid aftermath--I have finally lurched back into my own house and am here to stay . . . for a few days. A weekend without teaching or an absurd travel schedule or a funeral or a looming election; a weekend without demands: I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to this.

Of course, rest will be evanescent as we'll be on the road again next week, driving south on Thanksgiving morning. But something is better than nothing, and nothing is what we've had for too long.

Today: A walk, a small editing project, a poem draft. Housework, laundry, a haircut. Chicken soup simmering on the stove. A night out with the writers.

A book, a warm coat. Rain and a brisk wind. Day as plainsong.