Sunday morning, at the tail end of August. A jay is screeching in the white pine by the window. The refrigerator hums, and an empty log truck rumbles and jounces down the road into town. The rooms, for the last time this season, are full of sleeping boys, and in about five hours my kitchen and living room will be draped with giant slouching bodies cooking waffles, laughing, pondering computer glitches, updating me loudly on Premier League soccer scores, poking the cat, and satirizing presidential candidates.

But tomorrow J's friend goes back to his job, and both of my boys go to school, and I will step into the first writing day I've had for weeks or months or forever. Even during this summer's six boy-free weeks, I had so much editing to do that I could rarely snatch an opening for myself. So despite tomorrow's requisite tears, I hope the day will be an island.

Floating Island 

by Dorothy Wordsworth 

Harmonious Powers with Nature work
On sky, earth, river, lake, and sea:
Sunshine and storm, whirlwind and breeze
All in one duteous task agree. 

Once did I see a slip of earth,
By throbbing waves long undermined,
Loosed from its hold; — how no one knew
But all might see it float, obedient to the wind. 

Might see it, from the mossy shore
Dissevered float upon the Lake,
Float, with its crest of trees adorned
On which the warbling birds their pastime take. 

Food, shelter, safety there they find
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;
There insects live their lives — and die:
A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room. 

And thus through many seasons’ space
This little Island may survive
But Nature, though we mark her not,
Will take away — may cease to give. 

Perchance when you are wandering forth
Upon some vacant sunny day
Without an object, hope, or fear,
Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is passed away. 

Buried beneath the glittering Lake!
Its place no longer to be found,
Yet the lost fragments shall remain,
To fertilize some other ground.

**

Tu Fu readers, how are you doing with your prose experiments?