Day 177

Mild afternoon.  I am learning a piece by Marais.
Divide the difficult section in parts,
be aware of the ornaments, the length of bow I use.
My young dog chews on one of her toys.  The older dogs
sleep, watch out the window.  How can it be so peaceful
here, I think, that I can spend an hour 
learning these few measures?
That I can look long at the picture Barclay sends of Cristina,
leaning against a wall
in Mexico, six months pregnant, in a red knit dress?
That there are no drones, no bombs? That her wished-for,
worked-for, (already loved by all of us) child
will not be born under an exploding sky?