We went out for a fun meal at a friends' house last night, and then took a sweet stroll home through the neighborhoods. I may never get used to these genteel amenities . . . these evening walks; the social hive, gently buzzing; lights in the windows, clank of plates, steeple like a beacon.

The rain had stopped by the time we went out, and there's still no rain this morning, but it remains deeply cloudy, with showers possible all week. I won't be hanging laundry outside for the foreseeable future. But eventually, rain or no rain, I'll have to break down and cut the grass. A reel mower doesn't have much power over a meadow. And the weeds are becoming bold.

Yesterday I worked a bit more on my collection, but mostly I did Frost Place stuff and edited a short-story manuscript. Today will be more of the same, plus a Donne conversation with Teresa. The collection continues to distract me: I have a few niggling corrections on my mind, small changes to consider across the poems, words that keep reappearing, and should they? or should I iron them out?

I've put so much energy into the book, over these past few days. I know my concentration is beginning to flag, and I don't want to wreck anything. On the other hand, I always do my best work in these bursts of fervor. I should take advantage of every single moment.