I woke, in the very early hours, to the sound of rain falling, and now, under first light, the streets and roofs shimmer, and the grass glows that peculiar intense green one sees in travel brochures of Ireland. A cardinal hops among the wet hydrangeas; another, invisible, whistles in the ash tree.

The day is breaking beautifully for a party. Tonight's will be a small party--just five guests, plus the three of us--but it will be our very first in this new era, and the mediocre backyard is eager to host.

Paul and I have a bit of cooking to do, and I need to go to the grocery store, but mostly I refuse to over-fuss. The road construction seems to be winding down, and the weather forecast is stellar, and I just want to sit outside and marvel over the faces of my friends.

Yesterday I got a haircut, and submitted a couple of poems to journals, and had a meeting about Frost Place stuff, and finished reading about Ivy Compton-Burnett, and cooked a giant batch of Casco Bay mussels. Here they are, in their enamel dishpan, clean and glossy and ready for the pot.

And here are my first garlic scapes. I think they are wildly beautiful.