It's cold and windy outside, the kind of weather that rumples up house sparrows in the hedges and makes oak trees creak like old men. Yes, I will go for my walk this morning, but I'll feel as if I'm atoning for sin.

Friday: recycling day, wash-the-bedding day, run-errands day, then back-to-my-desk day. The furnace huffs and puffs against the cold. Cavorting among the legs of the dining-room chairs, Little Chuck plays chow hockey with his breakfast.

I've been editing madly, reading Tennyson madly, trying to catch up and keep up, solve and speculate, juggle Christmas planning with class planning, project planning, poem writing, and I don't have a clear idea about where most of this is headed, though I'm hoping something will surprise me, and not in a bad way. I could use a week alone to stare out the window, but alas.

Still, I'm lively, so there's that.