Thin cloud muffles the sky. The air is humid and heavy. All of the house windows are open, and a vague coolness sifts through the empty rooms. Outside, bluejays screech among the maples; otherwise, the street is quiet, except for the mutter of a next-door air conditioner. It is a summer dawn in a small northern city by the sea.

My days have returned to their old ways. It is pleasant to be home--at my desk, at the clothesline, in the garden, in the kitchen. Late afternoons, I pick peas and strawberries, cut lettuce and herbs, choose new flowers for the vases, make jars of ice tea. For a few minutes I sit and read a novel about India in the deep backyard shade.

At night a fan flutters the pale window-blind. Blue walls retreat into shadow. Under the cotton coverlet I wake and sleep and wake--restless, dreaming. The night moves slowly, and the robins sing early.