And today we will wander back to Portland.

It's been a good week--the eclipse, the rain and wind, the peepers, the meals and wine and conversation, and yesterday, finally, the hike up Flying Mountain, picking our way up a stony trail that was, in places a running stream, looking out over hazy Somes Sound, hearing the loons wail, feeling earth and water stretch beneath our shoes.

Back at the cottage I cleaned out flowerbeds while T cut down a tree that was threatening our friend's house, and then the three of us lugged logs to the woodpile, and meanwhile the crows screeched and daffodils winked in the weeds and spring is here; at long last spring has arrived.

This week my thoughts will turn toward planting peas in my own garden. This week I'll open my own windows and let the stale winter air dissipate in the breeze. This week I'll hang a first load of laundry on the lines.

In a few weeks, we'll be back on the island, briefly, for Curtis's memorial service. Sorrow and a big party and a bright wind off the sea. That feels about right.