Good morning from the north, where the snow has melted and the buds are reddening and rain patters into the ice-free lake and the sky is as grey as a boot.

Outside my bedroom window log trucks rumble past. Downstairs, store employees thump quietly, filling the coffee urns and frying the breakfast sandwiches.

Today's class will be our last real writing day. We'll read poems by Kate Barnes, Nikki Giovanni, Wislawa Szymborska, and Homer; we'll mess around with character, action, setting; we'll talk about what could happen next in our writing lives. I feel a little mournful as I imagine these young poets walking away into the world.