It is so dark at 5 a.m. these days.

Outside, a freight train squeals and rumbles past. The air through the open windows is cool, and a warm coffee cup comforts my hands. No birds sing yet, but somewhere in the garden a cricket chirps.

Yesterday I finished the big editing project and then proofread about half of Calendar. This morning I'll finish proofing, meet a friend for a walk, and turn my attention to yard work--grass mowing for sure, and maybe I'll also find the wherewithal to begin digging up the weedy front walkway.

Meanwhile, end-of-summer sociables are rife. Tonight I'm going to an art opening and then to a reading, partly with T, partly with poets. Then tomorrow afternoon I'll have my monthly zoom-confab with my far-flung poet collective: Teresa, Jeannie, and Maudelle. And on Saturday morning I'll embark for New York.

I look back at this summer, and it's a blur of busyness . . . family visits, garden hysteria, the anxiety and catharsis of the teaching conference, getting a book ready for press: all overshadow the plodding details of routine. And now September looms.

I don't know if I'm looking forward to a new routine or dreading it. I've never been at ease with transitions.  But I am excited about going to New York--to packing the shiny brand-new suitcase I had to buy after the wheels fell apart on the old one I brought to Chicago last spring . . . to wandering around the august halls of the Met with my large son . . . to staying up way too late with my oldest friend . . . to perching in the stands at Citi Field and watching my Red Sox boys bumble and shine.