Waking into the sun rising over the river in a splendor of pink, purple, orange, yellow, blue. I rush out with the dogs to the river and they are happy to romp along. Tips of trees are pink and yellow on the icy surface of the Charles. Homecoming. We walk to meet our friends in the far meadow, in between our homes: she with her two dogs, me with mine. It’s fresh, chilly, but also mild. I am fresh from Florida, but not freezing, even though the ice is on the river and brook and swamps of my wonderful woods. It’s a strange and happy day of being welcomed home and looking out the windows at winter instead of summer; at a river instead of the Gulf of Mexico. And we’ll go back. We are not sure when. And my son comes home and talks without stopping while he toasts his toast and I sit and listen. I know I have been missed. Another daughter texts her welcome. My poem is sent ahead to my workshop for tonight; revised last weekend, and I know I’ll go to Monday night poetry, I just don’t know if it will be in person or by videoconference, as the day unfolds with a visit to Frank’s mother in Boston in the hospital where she is cheerful and entertaining from her perch in the up-folded bed in a private room and a furry white neck warmer. Tonight, I go to poetry, by videoconference in the end. Remarkably, the work I’ve done on this marriage poem has truly advanced the poem. I appreciate very much hearing how well it is finally working. We are a small group tonight, and the sharing is deep, rich, helpful, to and from all, and we end early enough to chat a bit, and I end my evening in the best way possible. It’s very dark outside my windows. It’s a dark sky over the meadow and river. Another dawn soon, I will run toward it.