A rain rush outside the window in the quiet, just lighting morning. I planned a run. Mondays, it seems, a jog is called for. Will Charlie come in the rain? Of course. It’s surprisingly warm, and mucky, yes, but pleasantly fresh. I go six miles, satisfied. It’s a bit of a tight day. I have enough time at my desk to revise a couple of poems as a warm up to finding a new one for tonight. I am working on this series, seems like a series, I am calling “Origin Stories.” Last week I took notes for a maybe poem, and thought, no. It won’t be a poem. But this morning I saw it and it said yes to me, so that’s what I did, and uncertainly, as a new poem is always uncertain. But I sent it off. Then I sat in my meditation with my candle and quiet and breath and presence. I broke for a moment or two from my jog in the woods where the hidden brook runs. Monday is a good day to stop and listen, the falling rush over rocks. I heard it in my meditation, it rushed white in my chest. I do feel wrapped in this low December light now, in a pleasant way, because Christmas is coming, and with it, lights. Although our tree is not yet lit. Frank will buy the lights, he says, and I believe in him. I whisked up a dinner that pleased everyone, my chicken parmigian. Then, to poetry workshop, the wonderful deep dive into each other’s work and then camaraderie. Rushing, the rain has come, it’s pouring in the dark. The lights blinked out for a few minutes after dinner. Just stopped, the house was black. Candles lit. Poor Charlie, the shock of the switches and dark. Not even a cookie to comfort.