Monday, the New Sunday

Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

-Lord Tennyson, Ulysses

Sitting up here on the Cliff after a late breakfast with P, enjoying the graying skies and steady winds from the south.

Those will be headwinds tomorrow, when I'm flying back to PC for a day in court. Dread settles in at the thought.

The birdfeeder looks pretty ravished, doesn't it? The air's growing cold, leaves whip around in the breeze, and the woodpeckers, finches, and titmice know it's time to bulk up. We've filled it two or three times a day, all weekend.

Peg's built her schedule with Mondays off, which meant sleeping in this morning and the aforementioned mid-morning poached eggs. Of course, it's a workday for me, with online class and calls and dictation and a deposition a little later. The torrent never stops, but at least it's abated a bit. Peg observed over coffee this morning that I'd shed all of the problem clients except one, and they're going in the hopper later today. Life's too short.

Time to clean the Traeger after fouling it thoroughly over the weekend cooking ribs and London broil, then down the hill through farms and the valley of the Cohocton to feed the cats.