Two days of wind and rain, and now, this morning, a limpid cloudy blue, pale as an old shirt, stains sea and sky. Last night, even as the storm tore at the cottage, I could tell that the weather was spring-softening, gusts spinning from nor'easter to westerly, and the peepers and frogs knew it too.

Tom returned from his trip, brisk and cheerful. Our friend walked down from her house, and we ate macaroni and cheese and Brussels sprouts and talked about spy novels and car-chase movies.

I did manage to finish large chunks of various jobs yesterday, and today I intend to do no desk work at all. Maybe we'll be able to hike, but I have my doubts. There are puddles and ponds and mud holes everywhere. The earth is a leaking sponge.

But the birds are singing after rain, and the sea ripples outside my window.

Tomorrow we go home.