It’s late in the day for me – 7 AM. I slept in after the Chicago Blackhawks playoff game.

The sun’s been up for hours, the sky is the palest of blues. From what I can see the rabbits are leaving the garden alone. Our mated pair of crows are clacking away, and the bird I haven’t identified yet is keeping up his “howdy howdy howdy” call. I’ve got a cup of peaberry coffee with cream and sugar and am trying to arrange the weekend in a sensible manner.

Tonight, I’ve got an engagement for our friend Deepika’s home-cooked dinner at Le Petit Marche. Tomorrow afternoon I’m back at the Market to celebrate Mike and Mark’s (finally official, thank you, Illinois) wedding. Tomorrow night, Game 7. These are the unchangeable milestones to work around.

Ideally, I’ll complete a short story draft and three art projects, finish editing a poem, get to the gym, clean the house, read two chapters of the latest obsession (Pynchon’s Bleeding Edge), and spend some time in the sunshine. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s frankly enough for me this weekend.