I expected to be heading north for band practice today, but as it turns out I'll be staying home in hot little Portland. Eighty degrees yesterday, eighty degrees today, amid the early dusks and late dawns of a Maine autumn . . . basically, the weather feels wrong, and it's making me tired and edgy. Or maybe I'm just coming down with a cold. In any case, not traveling north gives me time to limp around the grass with the lawnmower, and to limp around the kitchen making sauce with the tomatoes ripening on my windowsills, and to limp into the yard and shake my fist at the squirrels that keep chewing down my clothesline. I've also got editing infinitum, and I still haven't found time to work on the poem revision that's been niggling away at my semi-subconscious.

But, hey, the Red Sox beat the Yankees!