yesterday was in the low 80s here in chicago, and last night we slept with the windows open, breezes pushing dreams around, snagging them in giant-size tree branch shadows playing across the grey-white wall. this morning the apartment is full of songbirds’ trills and clucks, the occasional crow calling out in passing reminding me of iowa, and chris’s rhythmic sleeping breaths. we’ve had the flu here this week– hours and hours of bone-deep aches and oceans of fever sweats. the sky inland from the lake is a low slate promising spring storms to wash away the grit of winter. the neighbor hound bellows beautifully down the block at some squirrel or human passer-by. if I keep to sheer description of things in the world out there, perhaps I can circumnavigate that infernal pit of perennial and unanswerable questions, second guesses, equivocations, and self doubt. birds and weather are kinder.