Instead of baking, the boy and I decided to take an impromptu ferry ride to Peaks Island, and along with about five thousand other holiday-makers, we had a beautiful afternoon sightseeing on the busy, boat-filled bay, strolling down to the island beach, eating ice cream, and behaving like tourists in our own town. It was good to get out onto the water. My spirits always lift in a boat, though I can barely swim and would drown immediately in an accident. But I love the movement, the breeze, the hum of the engines, the churning wake, the flocks of sailboats, the broad sky.

And then, when we were done, we were ten minutes away from our house.

I still can't get over the strangeness of being so close to so many things. Few outings were impromptu in Harmony, unless they involved snowshoeing.

Today I need to get back to work. Tonight we're walking to a baseball game. The summertime life continues.

In the meantime I am reading Trollope's Framley Parsonage and Schnackenberg's poems; I still seem to be on hiatus from writing my own, but hanging out with my son is clearly more important. By Labor Day he'll be back at school, and life will dip into autumn, and maybe the poems will wait for me there.