This is what downtown Portland looked like yesterday afternoon--more than a thousand people gathered in Monument Square, though the temperature was 15 degrees and plummeting. I was thrilled to see so many high school-age protesters, many of them sheepishly bumping up against their also-protesting teachers. I was impressed by the number of businesses that had chosen to close in solidarity. I was pleased by the excellent behavior of the police, who managed traffic and the march route efficiently but were otherwise low key in all ways. I was very glad to be there with my friends, our little bloc of poets.

But I was also very glad to walk back into my warm house and unthaw myself. Though I was wearing three layers on my legs, two pairs of socks, insulated boots, two coats, two scarves, two pairs of gloves, and a hat, I still came home numb with cold, especially my feet. It was exactly the right night for noodle bowls--udon, roasted tofu, a soy-marinated egg, and stir-fried cabbage in citrus-chicken broth. There's no better comfort than noodles and broth.

Now, at first light, the temperature outside is minus four, but the house is snug and warm. Our new expensive furnace sure heats up the place better than the old one did. This weekend I need to read further into The Pillow Book and Tabucchi's Dream of Dreams; I need to write a blurb for a friend's chapbook; I need to work on some poem drafts and clean the bathrooms and do the grocery shopping. I am looking forward to taking a break from editing: I've been driving myself on that project this week, and it's not been easy work.

I think my favorite sign yesterday was the one I saw a high schooler carrying: Young People Are Fucking Sick of This. You and me both, honey.