Another sweet night with the window open . . . tick of dry leaves in a small wind, animal mutters, a scuffling among the twigs, a world breathing into my bedroom.

Yesterday I weeded and cultivated the entire vegetable garden and the sidewalk flower gardens; this afternoon, I'll move out back, finish raking, dispatch the maple seedlings, set out the chairs and maybe the hammock . . . though first I have to do all of the housework, and before that I have to work at my desk, and before that my exercise class and laundry, and, gracious, it is a wonder I ever get anything done.

Also, I'll be talking to Teresa today about Donne; also, I'll be going out to the salon to write.

Tomorrow night the kids will arrive; Saturday we'll embark for the cottage. It will be a lovely outing and we're all looking forward to it, but, man, am I overbooked.

Still, for the moment, life is quiet. I sit here, in my accustomed corner. The sound of traffic--an airplane, a car--filters through the panes. Beyond them, birdsong. Along the driveway, flowers glow brilliantly in the gray light--gold, cerulean, rose, cream. My eyes are so greedy for color and line.