Fifty-four degrees. A sky whitening among the trees . . . chestnuts, apples, and then the forest trees--so many trees, small and tall, planted and wild, clustering around the house, opening down the hill into the garden spot, shouldering together at the edge of the clearing. The land of trees, the great north woods. Which means, of course, that somewhere close by, the roar of chainsaw and skidder also rises into the morning.

This visit has been perfect. Family sweetness in Wellington, comic sociability on the fairgrounds. P and I had an excellent time judging produce; T had fun judging art; we were entertained by suddenly being called together to sample fruit cordials and mead at 10 a.m. with a motley crew of whoever happened to be hanging around. A former student won best in show for a fantastic watermelon. Another former student won the demolition derby. I got huge hugs from old friends. In the afternoon, a drive up into Kingsbury to walk the barrens, pick blueberries, dip our feet into the pond . . . all the while, talking and talking about everything on earth. In the evening, T cooking over a fire, dinner in the dark on the screen porch, music and wine and an owl. What complete and utter delight. We are sated.

Wild blueberry barren, Kingsbury, Maine