Given Chuck's ongoing gut issues, I can't lock him out of the basement and away from his litterbox for hours at a time. Nonetheless, I managed to get a sizable amount of firewood into the basement yesterday morning, and then released the lion and let him cavort over the mountain of logs as I stacked. At this speed, I'll need another few days to finish the job, but that's fine. Chuck's delight over the woodpile is worth the extension.

This morning I'll go for a walk with a friend, then return to firewood and my poem draft and my reading. Tonight T and I are going out to the movies--Robert Altman's 1973 noir The Long Goodbye, one of our favorites. Meanwhile, my tomatoes have suddenly started ripening, so I'll make sauce today, maybe freeze a few beans. Clearly it's homestead season--harvest work, firewood work--and I'm lucky to have a block of time to concentrate on the bounty.

Now T is coming down the stairs, and Little Chuck is bouncing after him. The sky whitens; chill air swirls through an open window. No fires needed yet, but the vision of neatly stacked wood in the cellar is satisfying. I look forward to the fragrance of simmering tomatoes. I look forward to a little black cat curled on the hearthrug.

Today I'll finish the Le Carre novel and turn my thoughts to Sarah Ruden's book on Plath. I'll mess around with my draft . . . it's close to done, but a few phrases remain rough or conditional. Is it a good poem? I don't know yet, but for the moment it is alive--shifting, expanding, murmuring.