The neighborhood is very quiet this morning. People have vanished for the long weekend; people are sleeping in on their day off. The only person I've seen so far is the man who combs recycling bins for returnables, rattling up with his bike and dragging a shopping cart. We say good morning, we chat about the time and about coffee. Then he continues his rounds, and I amble back down the driveway. There, the cat, drunk on cool air and lying in wait, leaps out at me from under the truck, swarms four feet up a tree trunk, pauses in confusion, awkwardly backs down, and strolls away, metaphorically whistling as he goes. I'm not dead under a bush are the lyrics of his tune. Life is so ruthlessly alive.

I have many jobs to do today--grass mowing and trimming, vacuuming the car, packing, prepping tomorrow's lunch, plus dealing with regular laundry and meal chores. Teresa and her husband are vegan, so I've decided to fix a Korean summer noodle dish that we can eat before we drive up to Monson tomorrow. For tonight I've got chicken for the firepit, to be marinated with lemon, oil, garlic scapes, and oregano. The city fireworks are usually visible from our street, so maybe we'll sit out on the curb this evening to watch. It's hard to dredge up enthusiasm, though. There's not much to celebrate in America.

Still, I cannot enter into conference week with a defeated mind. I am too responsible for other people. I owe them more than gloom and cynicism. I owe poetry more than that as well. As the goons jackhammer the nation, our small circles embrace, our small flames glow. We are afraid, but we are not quenched.

Thank you to all of the familiar beloveds, to all of the soon-to-be friends, who are trustfully wending their way to the north country to spend a week immersed in that glow. Thank you to the beloveds who hold the fort at home, honoring our commitment and our need. Thank you to the wider circle of friends and neighbors and family members who text good wishes for the week, or feed our pets and water our plants, or promise eagerly to attend one of the performances, or wistfully wish they could be with us, or send us dumb cat photos in the middle of the night. Thank you to the readers of these daily missives, for your loyalty, for your curiosity, for your patience with my maundering missteps, for your sweet voices in the comments.

Under the jackhammer's clamor, I hear you singing.