This is Lake Hebron, in Monson, Maine, at about 4 p.m. in early December. The town is very quiet. There are no artist residencies in session till after the holidays, the three restaurants are all closed on Mondays, so very few people were out and about when I arrived. I bought a sandwich for dinner at the general store, and settled into my apartment for the evening, which I mostly spent on the couch, dozing in and out of a movie that starred a very young Spencer Tracy and was so dull that I can't even remember the title.

And now I am writing to you, while glancing across the way to see if the store is open yet so I can toddle out and get my coffee and a yogurt. 

This morning the kids and I will be working with a book artist to make writing journals, and I'm very much looking forward to having an art project. Then, after pizza, we'll play some form games, look at a couple of sonnets, write a couple of drafts, depending on how much time we've got left before the buses arrive.

And then the long ride back to Portland.

In the meantime I sit here in the shadowy apartment, watching loaded log trucks rumble through town, the pickups and SUVs drift up onto Route 15 and head out toward jobs, and now I hear the slam of a car door outside the store, which must be the sign that coffee has become available. A sheriff's cruiser flies past, blues lights churning, and they are exactly the same shade as the Christmas lights flickering in the store window. This is a busy corner before sunrise.

So I think I will put my coat on and head outside to see what's what . . . yes, here comes another loaded log truck, jake-breaking as it slides into town, and now an ambulance speeds toward Greenville, lights ablaze . . . crises are happening, and I would like some coffee.