The air is so thick this morning. It's 71 degrees at 5:30 a.m., and I guess I'm going to have to break down and turn the air machine back on. But for the moment I still have the windows open to the warmth, to the jays squawking, to the greeny early morning light. 

Last night I went out to write at the salon, and now I've got three solid blurts to consider, someday, when I find my leisure again. I doubt that will be soon, as I have to teach a craft lecture this morning for the Frost Place Poetry Seminar, a writing class tomorrow afternoon for the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance, and I'll be editing in between.

I've been catching up on the seminar's faculty readings; I've still got one more to go, which I hope I can fit in this morning. I haven't attended any of the other seminar talks or workshops (mostly because I was afraid I'd chatter inappropriately), so the readings are giving me a sense of previous conversations, and may help me call on some themes or ideas that have circled among the participants this week.

Otherwise, same-old, same-old . . . laundry and watering, cooking and sweeping. I have two big eggplants to harvest today, so that's what we'll be having for dinner, with peaches and whipped cream for dessert. A summer plate. A prayer for rain.