The river is full – very mildly overflowing its banks, swamping the ferns that grow in the rich soil at the edges. It was a shorter walk today, over the trestle into the meadow in sunshine. Later than usual, I waited for the morning mist to clear; but waiting rushed me and made me restless to return. In the afternoon I tweaked my newest poem to bring tonight, to my poetry group, and I was feeling very good about it, but, after the critique I see its flaws, its needs for development and chiseling and sculpting. I don’t know. It feels broken; that’s always a stage to go through to get better, to get where it’s supposed to go. So, it needs more work than I thought it did going in to the critique. I will let it rest a bit in its brokenness. I will see what comes next - how to help it be whole. All the Queen Anne’s Lace in all the meadows now is brittle brown and dry. Still, it is the commanding presence of the un-mowed field.