Another dim and cloudy morning, here in the little northern city by the sea. I was late rising, having slept badly in the wee hours and then fallen hard into a dreamscape in which I was repeatedly rescuing my baby from drowning. Ugh. Insomnia is much better than that.

Now I'm drinking black coffee and considering my day, which will involve (naturally) firewood and some baking for our little dinner party. Yesterday I made and froze the tart shell, so I'll just need to bake and fill it with lemon curd today. And I'll need to mix together the pita dough this morning so that I have plenty of time to get each little bread through the oven.

Outside, Canada geese are honking, moving from cove to pond, making their first, slow migratory shifts. The yard is looking dingy, like a badly swept room. Autumn really is here, though I have yet to close the windows or start a fire in the wood stove or even put on a jacket and socks.

I'm still reading the Iliad and Vanity Fair, still fidgeting with my poem draft. I'm thinking about tomorrow afternoon's chapbook class and skeptically imagining the Red Sox in the playoffs. Tom and I are looking forward to attending a neighborhood yard sale this morning.

You might remark that my life seems pretty tame. But in fact my head is full of battle. The Iliad is a graphic and dread-filled poem, and that blood is seeping everywhere.