11/14
My sneakers, pillow,
Husband, and heating pads. Home!
Television too.
11/17
Under the leaves: nuts,
rocks. I slip. The vernal pool
is dry. I don’t fall.
11/18
Milkweeds planted the
first year of Covid produce
their very first pods.
11/19
Leaves rattle ‘cross streets.
Tar ribbons shine in fall sun.
Are we slouching yet?
11/20
This time of year sun
glares through southern windows at
three. I close the shades.
11/21
Both boys home first time
since Covid. A girlfriend too.
The dog is confused.
11/22
Billy: sixty-four.
Kennedy: gone sixty years.
The dates twinned always.
11/23
They brought both dogs which
meant we could relax. Puzzle,
food, more food, and fire.
11/24
An almost full moon
rose, the granite block empty.
Goodbye Columbus!
11/25
Up the hill toward home
morning sun warms nose and cheeks
even in chilled air.
11/26
“They ripped it down to
the roof and then built it up.”
A brand new chimney.
11/27
Our neighbor’s red drop
earrings caught the morning sun.
Swinging bits of fire.
11/28
Why can’t neighbors take
Montauk daisies before the
teardown? Such a waste!
11/29
The main character
has the worst haircut and I
just can’t get past it.
11/30
Five barrels topped with
leaves tilt into a tree trunk.
They are of one mind.
Dumplings in Chinatown.
Home Depot run followed by Savers. Look at that beautiful linen shawl and swath of Woolrich houndstooth!
Ansel Adams at the MFA — unbelievably crowded. Tolerable because I know I’ll be back.
Watching Bird Box (creepy good with some unexplained baloney that I now call ‘the Lost Effect’ — after the TV show).
Not sharing.
Fitbit early observations: the steps have got to be inflated (it doesn’t take 1200 to get dressed and make breakfast), sleep stages are all in the normal range but I could use a little more, and I really am not that keen on having this apparatus on my wrist (don’t tell K. And anyway I know I’ll find it useful).
All good holidays now include trips to the airport. 
We head back to terminal B later today.
I cannot believe that I used to put out dinners for four 350 nights a year.
We are all wishing for snow.