I've been in a lousy-sleep cycle since Monday, and I eagerly await its end. This morning I flicked on the light at 4:30, after lying awake since 2:30 . . . but at least I wasn't keeping T up as I tossed and kicked. He left for Chicago yesterday afternoon, so I'm a bachelor for a few days, which means that I now have an entire pot of coffee to drink by myself. I hope I don't overdose.

It's cool in the outside darkness--only 50 degrees now and not forecast to get warmer than the low 60s. I should probably start tearing out the rest of the tomatoes, and the sunflowers too. I'll be teaching all weekend, so today is my "day off," which simply means housework and yardwork rather than editing. But maybe I'll also get a chance to look at the notebook blurts from last night's salon. At least one of them might be worth prodding.

Yesterday I baked my first apple pie of the season and brought it along to poetry night. It was one of those rare pie-making expeditions in which the crust behaved exquisitely under my hands . . . no rips, no sticking to the counter, no crumbly dryness, no uncontrollable misshapen circles. From rolling pin to plate, it was perfect. I have been making shortcrust pastry since I was a kid, and I'm still never sure what I'm going to get. Pie crust is a moody beast. But the kitchen gods smiled on me yesterday, and there's even a slice left for breakfast. That is a nice thing for a bachelor to look forward to.

In this black hour before dawn, a freight train rattles over the tracks at the end of the street. But the house feels contained, expectant--framing circles of lamplight, the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of a clock. Last night, as I lay sleepless in bed, the house seemed to gather round me. I was a marble in a cup, a clean shirt in a drawer. The smallness made me smaller and the night felt vast and wild.

That's not a bad way to be awake, if one must be awake . . . becoming a dollhouse self, under an ink-blue sky roiling with stars.