March 4, 2010

Dim blue light over the snow. Isaac on the CD. Icicles stream down Caroline’s roof gutters.

The last few have been among those when I have felt remarkable physically– limber as a boy, ache-less, energized, as though it were thirty tears ago. No idea what causes it or how it passes, but shall wallow in it while it’s here.

Of Bogs and Books reading group in suburban Chicago will be looking at Bird Songs of the Mesozoic at their April 10 meeting. It happens at a place called Volo Bog, which, from the Internet, looks like paradise.

B posts a photo of me at the Bobo the other night, Casey’s arm around my shoulder, MM’s eyes shut against the flash. I look happy. I often work up a smile for photos, but this time I look happy.

Steaming away on Voices, one of those lucky pieces which, once I find the groove, writes itself.