The mailboat travels among the islands several times a day, and last night we opted for the sunset run, which leaves Portland at  6 p.m. and returns at about 8:30. We packed a picnic dinner and a couple of beers, and spent our evening on the water, watching young osprey in their nests and a floating parade of baby cormorants, catching sight of a moored lobster boat named Ulysses, as the sun slowly sank behind the mainland.

And now here we are at Monday again. T will spend his day creating window trim for a mansion; I'll be dealing with editing cleanup and a friend's manuscript. And we're preparing for the onslaught of heat . . . 90 degrees along the coast by Wednesday.  The garden will be shocked.

Today will be a quiet workday, most likely spent entirely by myself. I've started reading Truman Capote's early novel Other Voices, Other Rooms. I've been fidgeting with a poem draft. June is flickering past. Red roses throb in the dusky morning light, and a tuxedo cat stalks up the sidewalk. I am tired, like a person in love is tired. So much. Too much. Never enough.