Early to rise and alone in the morning, the meadow the river, and no rain. Charlie drinks the brook, a scribble of blue and black, pen and ink, where the mallards mill about and the muskrat feeds and i can breathe deeply this freshness of day. Rush of the water over the rocks, energy flows, and into the meadow, the broad and open sky and the aspen thin and young on the river’s edge. Frank asleep when I left. All asleep. I tiptoed out in this new day, a grateful morning. There is no deserving or undeserving; there is only the fact that I wake without a virus visible in my home. At the end of my walk I clamber up the steep hill to exercise my lungs and legs. And the sun came out on this land. Indoors, I met with a coaching client and developed her writing. And then ran a program for the IWWG, a free webinar we offered to nearly 100 writers, free lunch, with Judy Huge. And when the readers read their writing about food it was all so delicious and nutritious for my ears. Later, with my daughter chopping and pealing beside me in the kitchen, and our conversation, and our seamless process, we made a chicken stew and cornbread, we made a blueberry pie. And she baked two small loaves of bread with our expired yeast, and the bread didn’t rise. But it pleased us, dense and soft and fresh and hot from the oven. One other thing: one of my Farm Pond Writers, MB, wrote a draft of a tree poem yesterday, and she shared it with me and it was a beautifully crafted piece, and I got to comment on it, and that was something that fed me too, because poems need to be made right now, and this one had fresh yeast and it rose to the occasion of this tragic time.