It took me hours to fall asleep last night. I couldn't get the image of that murdered young woman out of my head; I couldn't quench my fury at those ICE thugs masquerading as law, or my fear for my own young people, who in their cities are doing the work that she was doing in hers. 

So I'm tired this morning. And I'm downhearted, to say the least. 2026 has had a hell of a start. Nonetheless, the clock ticks. The kettle steams. Outside, a few crows shift among the branches, and the tide laps at the pale marsh grass.

This morning I'll run a load of laundry and learn if T has solved the leak problem. This morning I'll lie back in a dentist's chair and let a stranger's hands probe my teeth. This morning I'll scratch away at class plans, at poem drafts, at the books I'm reading. Tonight I'll go out to write with my friends.

The future feels very fragile, very small.