Yesterday was a good day. I spent the morning with my friend Julia, walking through the neighborhood and chattering about Sexton and Millay and raising pigs and fixing poetry education and gardening on ledge and other such riveting topics. Then, after lunch, I started a new editing project and got paid for a teaching job and was invited to read this fall with my beloved Meg Kearney and ate too many cheese curls. I sat outside in the evening warmth with Tom and won at cribbage, then made a frittata for dinner and listened to the Red Sox play a good game of baseball for a change.

This morning I'll work at my desk, and this afternoon I'm going with some poet friends for an outing out to western Maine to eat lunch with another friend, swim in her lake (maybe; I'm a reluctant swimmer), and no doubt yakking the whole way there and back. Poets are so talky! Is it a reaction to how solitary we are while writing? Or is it a side-effect of word drunkenness?

This poet social life is just strange. For decades, I rarely saw a poet. And now they are everywhere.