Island weather this morning--dark and foggy and humid, with a briny scent to the air. It's the last day of July, and the days are getting notably shorter . . . dim sunless daybreaks and the dark creeping in earlier each evening. And yet it's high summer. The garden is in its glory--a riot of sunflowers, zinnias, nasturtiums, scarlet runners. The two rose of Sharons along the sidewalk are a mass of white and lavender flowers. Tomato vines are loaded, blueberries are ripening fast, green beans dangle from the trellis, basil and dill and cilantro spill from their beds.

So far this has been a busy week of meetings and planning sessions and phone calls and drafting schedules and sending out emails, but today will be quieter. I'll get onto my mat this morning, and then I hope to have a reading and writing day. There's still that compost pile to move, but it's sodden with rainwater, so my enthusiasm is low. I need to prune and tie up the sprawling tomatoes. I ought to harvest herbs for drying. But mostly I just need to wallow around in words. I'm still reading Dickens, still pondering "Grecian Urn," getting ready to start Donna Stonecipher's prose-poem collection The Ruins of Nostalgia. That's more than a day's work right there.

Yesterday, out of the blue, my older son phoned and announced that he and his partner would be spending a night with us on their way to a get-together with friends in New Hampshire. I was working in Monson during his last visit East, so I am all of aflutter about this unexpected visit. Boy time awaits! Next weekend I'll see my younger son in Vermont; a few days later my older son will be here; and then I'll have another round with the younger in Brooklyn in early September. A Sox-Mets game together in Queens: what a grand way to finish out the summer.