I puttered in the garden yesterday, mostly in reaction to the sudden incipient coolness in the air. I brought my houseplants into the house, picked a few drying beans from the scarlet runner, pulled out some tired lettuce. Now, this morning, the temperature has dropped into the 40s, and for the first time in months I am wearing slippers and full-length pajamas and a thick bathrobe, and considering whether or not I should lug some firewood into the house.

Yesterday afternoon we drove up to Augusta for the opening of a photo show that Tom's got some stuff in.  As we were driving back down the interstate in the evening, we kept being overwhelmed by the sky. It was a torrent of color and cloud, one of those melodramatic autumn gloamings that reminds me of bringing kids home from soccer practice and trying to ripen green tomatoes on windowsills.

I've been sending poems out to journals, and submitting the Dooryard manuscript, and organizing a thin sheaf of "future book" pieces. This week I'll likely be stepping back into serious editing, and I've got some teacher-training sessions to attend as well. But I hope I somehow manage to hold onto the writing thread that (along with the miracle garden) has sustained me this summer.