The nights have been cooler, no air machine roaring, and now, in the gray first light, a vague breeze trembles through the open windows. I'm glad to report that I slept better this morning--not late by any means but at least I wasn't awake before 4 a.m. I feel rested, happy to be drinking my small cup of coffee, comfortable in my skin.

I spent the first third of yesterday's daylight in the garden, weeding all of the front beds, pruning out overgrown herbs, deadheading blossoms, watering. Then I scrubbed the dirt off myself and turned to the big bread-making project that's been absorbing my attention this week: a five-day-long Danish rye extravaganza involving a buttermilk and rye starter that ferments for 72 hours, staggered additions of raw rye kernels, more overnight fermentations, and, today, a very slow rise and bake. There's no kneading involved, just a giant bowl of fragrant, bubbling batter. I'm quite excited about it.

To celebrate our anniversary, T and I decided to go into town and wander among the vintage stores--ostensibly to find a little birthday tchotchke to mail to our son but mostly because we enjoy poking through other people's weird stuff. We ate a big late lunch at Empire Chinese, came home for a nap, and then puttered around the house for the rest of the evening. It was a pleasant, unfussy day.

This morning I'll do more outside work before the heat kicks back in--mowing and trimming, some backyard weeding. I'll get the mysterious and exciting rye bread into the oven. Maybe I'll grocery-shop, or maybe I'll procrastinate on that till tomorrow.

In the meantime, Teresa and I have decided to take a detour before we hurl ourselves back into the 17th-century poets: we're going to veer into the romantics and undertake Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn." My plan is to copy out the poem word for word, and I am itching to get started. All of that factual Danish-rye talk might as well be a metaphor for my life in poetry during the past couple of weeks. Fermentation is underway and I am bubbling over.