Sorry for not writing yesterday morning, but there's not always wifi in Wellington in the early mornings . . . and, besides, I was listening to the loud robin outside my open window.

Tina the Subaru negotiated the muddy roads easily, a barred owl cried in the night, and I managed to drive home blithely unaware that I was being chased by a giant ice storm. Pretty much as soon as I left Monson, the north country got socked with ugliness, but my timing was perfect and I saw nary a drop.

So, home again. Today I'll turn my thoughts to desk work, probably go out to the salon to write tonight, start prepping the house for weekend guests, mule my way through my homemade exercise class, hang laundry in the 50-degree air, rake a few leaves, and so on and such. Outside the crows are shouting, a blue dawn is beginning to break, and I am a little bleary from not enough sleep, but such is life and I'll manage.

On Tuesday, before I hit the road, I made a sudden leap in progress on my essay, so that was a relief. Maybe I'll have a chance to look at it again today, or maybe not. My schedule is a bit blurry; many things could happen, and some of them will.

Yesterday my kids were speed-dating each other's drafts, focusing on revision questions, so the room was abuzz with chatter about themes, details, praise for language, curious "what if?" questions, and I walked around the edges and thought, My job is done. There is nothing like the thrill of hearing one's students take over their own education. My year with these kids is nearly ended: just two more classes, and then we celebrate at the gallery opening for their work. There have been challenges, for sure, mostly with oppressive school schedules and bad weather. Nonetheless, I've had a committed core of writers, and they are everything I treasure in young people: they are funny, sensitive, serious, caring, adventurous, and focused. They wonder about the world outside themselves, and they value the world they know. I bubble over with pride.