First light spreads its grey cloak behind the etched trees. Everything is sodden with snowmelt, but already soil and grass are visible again, and the mud smells of rivers.

Today we embark, but not too early. There's no rush. Our plan is to stop in Waterville to see the Louise Nevelson show at the Colby College Museum before going on to Monson. We're hoping that the crazy traffic forecasts won't come true. But if they do, we'll finagle our way north via the backroad route.

This morning I'll wash a last load of laundry. I'll pack food into coolers and bags. I'll apologize to the already-suspicious cat. I'll go for a walk. I'll make a final decision on how many books to bring . . . undoubtedly too many, but winnowing them down is a struggle.

These transitions between home and away are always poignant. I feel a little sad to be leaving my garden on what will be the first warmish week of the season. But in truth the soil is far too wet to plant or even to prep. It is a fine week not to be gardening. And T is so glad to be heading into a week of photographing and free space.

I spent yesterday afternoon baking brownies and a orange-flavored loaf cake (advertised in the cookbook as "excellent for traveling"), simmering a béchamel sauce to be used in a spectacular macaroni-and-cheese later this week, mixing up gorp, packing my bags for work, packing dry goods into a picnic basket--potatoes, rice, onions, garlic, tea and coffee--packing olive oil and balsamic vinegar and wine and an apron. And already we have embarked on our Beyonce project: starting with a Destiny's Child album last night so we can follow her crossover to solo.

But now the sky has brightened . . . a sudden azure: glory.