Greetings from the couch of a third-floor walkup filled with shadows . . . silhouetted oak leaves blowing and rippling across the walls, headlights carving angles into the high ceiling. Down on the street a bus sighs heavily; a train rumbles below the pavement, rattling the house; truck brakes squeal; the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway whooshes in to fill any small silence. Constant noise and light--yet somehow also peaceful. This high apartment is like a bird's nest tucked among the street trees. Already I am quite fond of it.

This afternoon I'll head back north to Maine, after a weekend spent walking and talking and eating and sleeping . . . head back into my busy editing week, which will fold into a weekend filled with teaching, which will fold into another week of travel.

I'll be glad to be home, but I've also been so glad to be here with my dear ones--doing, on the whole, nothing much, though last night I made them dinner--steak with fried grapes, sautéed peppers and onions, roasted potatoes. The weather has been windy and autumnal; my hair has been sticking up like a cartoon crazy person's; for three days I've read hardly any books.