Yesterday I spent all afternoon in meetings, and that will be the story for today as well. But I'm also going to take a yoga class and, I hope, spend some time outside. Apparently there's a great horned owl nesting in the cemetery, and I'd like to get a look at it. But the forecast is unsettled--maybe showers, maybe not--so I might just have my nose pressed up against the window. Not that I am complaining about rain: lord knows we need it desperately, even in dribs and drabs. 

I've been picking a few peas, a few strawberries, a bowlful of chard. Last night I made lazy macaroni, tossing it with whatever, and it came out well, because how could it not at this time of year? Fresh herbs, fresh greens, fresh onions.

Teresa and I have begun our Blake project, and I've been reading Garth Greenwell's new new book Cleanness, which is sort of a novel and sort of a set of linked stories and is completely beautiful. Garth is such a stunning craftsman. He handles a sentence with the confidence and aplomb of Henry James, and I don't know anyone who writes better about sex, while also revealing such greatness of heart.

Paul is still applying for jobs. Tom is still plodding off to the work site. I am sitting on the couch in a welter of poems and notebooks and screens and power cords. In the distance, I can hear a mockingbird sing.