At times it all seems like a dream; slow motion, blurry effects, dramatic lighting and all.

Things have become considerably less exciting and worthy of description around the old Burningham home since I went back to my summerschool duties. It's pretty much back to the old cycle of dragging myself out of bed, teaching disgruntled kids stuff they don't know they want to know anything about, getting groceries and mail on the way home, and helping our kids to clean house and take care of animals between backyard adventures once I'm there. That's about it.

I was outside around dusk taking a break from harassing the kids about their newly-torn apart rooms when a poem started coming to me. I then noticed that the chickens hadn't been taken care of and toys were strewn all over the area, so the inspiration passed from my weakened grasp.

Sometimes I like to imagine that this is an odd little necessary time-out life that we find ourselves in, to make necessary preparations and build some mundane patience, and that the next time through will really be an effectual and stimulating round.

But then sleep overcomes consciousness, and it all seems like a dream.