Wild weather all night in the little northern city by the sea: windswept rain clattering against the panes and the steady, low howl of an ocean gale. Now the rain has paused, but the howl continues and the downpour will return, huffing and rattling, and I will dodge wetly from car to market, in search of mussels for tonight's dinner with my in-laws, and I will stumble into the wind as I drag the recycling to the curb, and my in-laws will have an annoying drive north.

Today, I'll mostly be doing housework and dinner prep. I'm planning to make mussels meunière, garlic bread, a beet and marigold salad, and, for dessert, ginger-pear ice cream with rosemary shortbread . . . a seaside autumn meal. I'm glad I managed to get outside things done yesterday: cutting zinnias for vases, lugging in the enormous bloom-heavy begonia that thrived in the backyard all summer. Now the house is bright and cozy, if also shabby, and I hope it will be welcoming after a long day in the rain.

I went out last night to write, and might have scrawled a couple of blurts worth looking at again. I doubt I'll have time to do so today, but maybe. Anyway, it feels good to have them tucked into my notebook, waiting for me.

On another note: I want to remind you that I've got two Frost Place classes coming up:

* In December, another round of my intro chapbook seminar, "Learning from Nina Simone," open to anyone who is beginning to think about how to group poems.

* In February, a generative writing weekend, "Poet as Storyteller: Exploring the Power of Narrative," where we'll be experimenting with ways to use the tools of fiction within our poems. This is open to anyone, at any level of experience, who wants to read and talk and write.