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I'm back in New Hampshire and I've set up two grain bins and an old pallet in the hay mow as a desk. It looks out over the house and the driveway, the locust trees, the orange sugar maples bronzing in the evening sunset and the neighbor mowing his lawn. With the doors flung open, their honey-yellow woodgrain blushing, I'm finding my seasonal groove. I'm writing in the dregs of the hay. Hey, I'm doing my best. I'm looking at old things and finding new possibility. I'm watching a filament of spider silk stretching from barn door to dangling electrical cord and not moving. I'm watching my friend drink tea where I once hunted for eggs. I'm letting the whine of machinery be an engine of stillness. I'm considering registering to vote in New Hampshire. I'm swallowing my spit. I'm looking back on all my regrets with fondness. I'm sitting on velvet. I'm eschewing the past tense. I'm still suspended between here and there, now and then, but I'm watching my friend's grandmother land on the wall as a ladybug. I'm considering how to make death creative. I'm wishing for water. I'm inhaling dust motes. I'm imagining books instead of hay. A library instead of a mow. I'm under no illusion that I have a right to be here. I'm watching the dogs get loose in front of the mower. I'm hearing a shout. I'm fetching the ball. I'm worried someone is going to come talk to me. I'm up here to prevent that. I'm wondering if that tightness in my chest will ever go away. I'm much better at small groups now and it still hasn't. I'm learning that that's just how life is. I'm conquering one feeling only to be suckerpunched by another. I'm feeling the blood rush to my foot. I'm allowed to care.