Brownfield Bog is located about an hour northwest of Portland, and we timed our visit precisely, managing to get out of bed by 5 a.m. and slide the canoe into the water by 7:15. By the time we left, at about 10:30, the insects were starting to get spicy, but for the most part our paddle was serene and bite-free.

Bogs are one of my favorite places to canoe in the spring. The water is high, and the bird action is spectacular. We saw scores of red-winged blackbirds and eastern kingbirds. We saw an osprey, a kingfisher, and, to my extreme delight, a singing oriole. We saw flocks of unidentified ducks (they kept flying away ahead of us so I couldn't get a clear view) and T kept spotting warblers, but never clearly enough to name.

This is just the sort of outing that T and I love to take together, and now we are all hot to find other good canoeing spots in southern Maine. It's tricky: there are a number of rivers, but tides and strong currents can make them hard to canoe if you're not an expert paddler; and most of the ponds and lakes are surrounded by houses and filled with motorboats, which is not so enjoyable. Maybe we'll just have to keep going back to the bog. That would not break my heart.

Today it's supposed to get really hot--up into the mid-80s--and my plan is to climb into my weeding clothes this morning and work until the heat kicks in; then take a shower, don a sundress, and loll around with books and possibly a stack of printed-out poems. I am daunted by the sheer volume of material I need to consider for this next collection. I really can't believe how much I've written in these past couple of years: I likely have enough for at least two books. Much, much winnowing will be required.

However, I am not going to let poem worries tarnish my holiday weekend. Tonight T will grill chicken and red peppers over the fire pit, and we'll sit outside together in the warm dusk, maybe play cards, drink a beer, murmur together like friends. New summer is a love affair.