After a long day of 94-degree heat followed by torrential, garden-smashing thunderstorms, the temperature has "plummeted" to 71 degrees at daybreak. But I opened all of the windows anyway. Despite the deep humidity, it's not supposed to get out of the 70s today, and I am tired of artificial cold.

The thunderstorms were impressive--rivers of water roaring down our little street, branches crashing down onto our neighbors' jalopy (not a big deal since it's been parked in the same spot for seven years), my three-foot-tall potato plants crushed to the ground. Still, wet was a relief after two days of scorch.

And now a humid stillness fingers the window screens. A robin sings frantically in the maple grove. My susceptible hair is a pile of curls. Summer oozes from every atom.

Last night my writing group went out to listen to our friend Betsy read her poems in front of a jazz combo. This beatnik reverie had everything--a crabby interpretive dancer, a white-bearded old guy chanting "I read in front of an Iggy Stooge crowd in Detroit in 1967 and they hated me," a massive young guy in a remarkably too-tight t-shirt shouting "Rock the mic!" as he pranced, a Spanish tourist in a turtleneck and scarf (on a 90-degree night) translating his poem into English on the fly, and a few of my poet pals reading beautiful, surprising work. The scene was touching and ridiculous and moving, which I guess is what makes an evening a success.

And now here I am, back in my quiet. Maybe I'll finish up some editing today, if an author gets back to me with a few missing details. I'll clean the downstairs rooms. I'll wash sheets and towels, though there isn't much likelihood of outdoor drying today and I expect everything will have to go into the dryer. I'll work on poem revisions and read a book I don't like all that much but haven't convinced myself to ditch. I'll inspect storm damage in the yard and go for a walk, and maybe I'll mix up pizza dough for dinner.

The world is wet and sticky and dim. The sodden trees bow low. The wild lethargy of midsummer pulses up from the soil.