Yesterday was quieter than the day before: no ridiculous rainstorm or tree emergency, just laundry drying sweetly on the line and a bowlful of blueberries from my own bush. I caught up on editing and housework, had long phone conversations with both of my sons, and discovered that I've lost enough weight to fit into a shirt I really like. Hurray for the exercise regimen! Now that I'm dependent on myself instead of a teacher, I've more or less turned my sessions into a morning dance party, which has increased the fun quotient considerably. It's still hard and sweaty, but at least it's got punk and disco and soul.

Today should be fairly low-key. I've got a lot of desk work to do, but no tight deadline looming, no meetings planned, and I'm going out to the salon to write tonight, which means I get a day off from making dinner. I do love to cook, as you know, but a break is nice. Yet I've had a good run of meal inventions lately, my favorite being bluefish chowder, made with leftover steamed fillets, onion, bacon, potatoes, cream, and lots of parsley. A classic, with a bluefish twist. Nontraditional fish can be exciting in a chowder; there's a world of flavor out there.

But last night was simpler: just sausage, peppers, and onions on farro; a big green salad; blueberry-lemon scones. All desserts are blueberry these days. I listened to some baseball. T and I enjoyed an old Star Trek episode. And then a cool breezy open-window night for sleeping.

I feel the end of summer tightening around me. Since July my work schedule has been erratic, but that's about to change. I'll be on the road to Monson, filling weekends with teaching sessions, traveling to New York. So these late days of August have a kind of liquid slowness. I sit on the front stoop, mid-morning. I feel the air moving around me, listen to the gulls cry. The street is empty; only I am idling . . . not thinking of the future, only thinking of now.