It's a dark morning, with thunderstorms looming . . . or not: the forecast is coy. Whatever the future, the air is, for the moment, leaden and still. Here and there a knife-edge of sun cuts through the cloud, but to no particular effect. I might as well be wearing a marble toga: in this humidity I feel as heavy as a Civil War monument. Just call me Victory. Or Defeat.

I've got lots of editing to do. I suppose I'll also get beaten again at Scrabble. Apparently, I've reared a monster. Teach a boy to spell and he'll trounce his parents repeatedly.

I'm still reading Pamuk's Snow. I haven't worked at all on poems this week: between editing and mothering, I've been busy. I did pick our first big tomatoes--four gorgeous heirloom slicers that tasted like Eden.