The manhunt is over, and that is a massive relief. My neighbor was comparing the atmosphere of the past few days to the aftermath of the Boston Marathon bombings, when suburban Boston was frozen in place. My assumption all along was that this guy had killed himself, but of course no one could bank on that. So this morning it is a small sliver of relief to unlock the back door and let the cat out and in . . . and not be imagining.

Yesterday I speculated that I'd have some refracted knowledge of the people involved, and that's turned out to be true. A poet friend knows the killer's family. T works with electricians from Lewiston who have friends in the hospital. My neighbor knows the homicide team at the attorney general's office. Many of my friends know the governor.

I'm sure other connections will also unfold, but already you can see how tightly interwoven the Maine community is. The governor is a poet and a lawyer. My neighbor is a lawyer who used to work for the governor when she was the attorney general. I am a poet who has been published in anthologies with the governor. It's all so odd.

Anyway, the cops found the body. And that will uncrick the muscles in my neck ever so slightly as I fortify myself to teach today. I'm not feeling 100 percent well--this cold will not die, and all of the rest I snagged in Brooklyn has vanished into a new blanket of weariness . . . not just a result of the cold but triggered by the tension of the past few days.

But I did manage to get the house clean yesterday, to get the sheets and towels washed and dried and folded. I planted garlic and bagged up branches and did some raking and weeding. I made dinner and watched a couple innings of the World Series. I felt like crap all day but sitting around would have been worse.

And now I'll spend two days talking about Homer. I hope it will be the right place to be. I think it will.

Plus, it's my younger son's birthday. Twenty-six years with this dear one: what luck!