It’s almost 6:45 a.m., and the street is still dark. The sweet lanterns on my porch glow like little moons. From the sound of a familiar engine and the quick sweep of headlights, I can tell the café owner has headed out. I resisted the urge to call after him, “Time to make the donuts.”

Today is a showing up day. Word Raccoon is tucked under a quilt on the porch swing with strict instructions to stay put. Too many events, too little time for wrangling my writing gremlin, though I am taking notes.

Yesterday was a whirl. A customer appreciation day first, where a gentleman asked, “Shouldn’t you be at the café writing?” Oh, kind sir. I wanted to be.

Then a Twain readers’ theater at a retirement community. WR stowed away and beamed at their choice of Mark Twain’s more subversive pieces. She even reconnected with a few people, one of whom asked if her second book had ever come out. (Yes, indeed it has.) We sat with a woman about to head to the Grand Canyon, if things don’t close down before then, bless her heart.

As we left, WR gave the room one last scan, making sure she’d seen and interacted with everyone she knew there. Only a sigh and, moments later, the comic thunk of a traffic cone under the car. No harm done, unless you count driverly pride.

Later came the homecoming parade. WR was determined to spot my football-playing nephew. Eyes wide, camera ready. But the players weren’t in the parade after all. It makes sense because they had a game to play and the heat was high, but WR was deflated. A little Laffy Taffy cheered her. For a while.

Today is already mapped. Soon we’ll head to the fire department’s annual pancake breakfast. (I like pancakes. I don’t like early mornings.) Next, music at the café I love to haunt, my small vote for more live performers. Then on to the music department’s car-show fundraiser, a plan long in the making with a friend.

The gym might fit in, though my hip disagrees. Cortisone shot on Monday: excited and anxious. Not for the needle, if others can do it, so can I, but for whether relief will last.

We may end the day with my husband’s friend’s band gig. That one’s a maybe. WR might slip away to write instead; she only managed two poems yesterday, “In My Kitchen” and “On Simmer,” before the day caught up with her. Over dinner she recited an older piece, “Renewal,” from the heart. I’d bet my hat it finds a home.

Even as I write this, I feel that tug, homesick for my desk. The early light seems to rise from the ground itself, gilding streets and rooftops. Birds call to each other; do they have plans? Maybe they’re headed to the pancake breakfast too.

Here are a few lines from “Renewal,” which owes a nod to Logan’s Run:

There is no sanctuary.
Only the work.
Only the remaining…

Not exactly the glitter and purple you’d expect from Word Raccoon. She’s deeper than she lets on.

For now, she’s settling for strong coffee, a shower, and maybe, just maybe, a late-afternoon pocket for writing. I’d have the pancakes delivered if I could. This flowered robe is so cozy.