Another torrid morning, but suddenly the forecast is hinting at the thin possibility of thunderstorms this afternoon. What a relief that will be-- (unless they are all hail and wind and smash and wreck, in which case they can just stay away). This morning I'm serving on a "how to get your book published" panel [Q: do you know how? A: um.], and then I guess I'll be puttering in the garden until the fabled storm arrives/I find something else to do. I've been picking eggplants (beautiful Rosa Biancas, shaped like softballs and striped lavender and white), cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, okra. The bounty of summer, slightly dry and wan.

I did a lot of writing while I was away camping with the high schoolers; now I've got at least three new poem drafts to type out and ponder. Used to be I rarely wrote while I was teaching, and I still don't when classes are large and I've got to coax yakkers and cynics. But it's been good to dive in when I can. While most of what I write in these public settings isn't worth keeping, the act itself is rich. And I do love to surprise myself. And young people do love to watch a teacher fall down a rabbit hole . . . as well they should.