T's alarm went off at 5:30, and I woke up, turned on the light, then promptly fell back into a dream about whizzing around in jetpacks and stuffing a roast chicken with a whole potato. Thus, I'm running a little late this morning, and am still half-wandering a dream landscape of flying people and peculiar meal planning.

But I'm upright now, armed with the small cup of coffee that will recalibrate me into daylight Dawn. Already I can feel nighttime Dawn oozing away into the gutters.

This week has flown by. On Monday I thought I had all kinds of time to hunker down with that editing project. And now, already, it's Thursday, and I've got a Monson Arts class to plan for next week, and bathrooms to clean, and and and.

Still, I've made progress, hunkered down alone in the house, and I'm looking forward to seeing people again . . . going out to write at the salon tonight, driving up to the homeland on Monday. This seesaw between strict isolation and easy chatter: it's a fortifying mix, at least for my particular constitution.

For now, though, isolation still reigns. Once T leaves for work, Alcott House assumes its workaday cloak: laundry on the lines, dishes washed, counters strictly empty, gleaming. The kitchen floor is swept, the shades are lifted, the white-linened bed is crisp and neat. And then, and then, when the space is prepared, I retreat to the words.

First I have to make the egg. And then I have to crawl inside the egg. But housework has always been a kind of muse for me.