I am the throes of a long insomnia cycle. Many days have passed since I've had a full night's sleep, and I'm starting to wear down, especially after a couple of days on the road. I wish I weren't writing you this note at 4:30 a.m., but such is life. Still, I had a good day with the kids--focusing on epistolary poems as a way to begin thinking about varieties of audience. They did a lot of writing and talking, getting more and more comfortable with one another, and at the end of the day we chalked our poem-letters outside in the balmy air.

So now here I sit, awake too early again but at least I'm at home. I've got yet another slow tire leak that I need to get fixed today. I'm meeting with my Poetry Lab companions this afternoon, and I'm behind on all of the reading I should do for that. I've got a stack of classes looming, and I need to figure out the schedule for our biannual visit to the cottage on Mount Desert Island. T and I are going out to a Dietrich movie tonight. I need to turn tomatoes into sauce and Cornish hen bones into soup--but I don't have to manage a classroom today or drive hundreds of miles or edit anyone's manuscript, so that's something.

Instead, I'll go for a walk through the cemetery before breakfast. I'll sit outside mid-morning with a cup of tea and a book and align my thoughts with the air. I'll putter among late blossoms and imagine next spring. Maybe I'll even get a few chores done before I sit down with the poets and listen to them sparkle about Eliot and Rothko. I'm not feeling extra smart today, but possibly I'll even say something myself.

Last night we got a bit of rain, and now under streetlights the starry pavement glitters. The cat slinks up the driveway, then pauses to prowl under Tom's truck. I wish I were asleep. But I'm glad raindrops are sliding from the yellowing leaves. I'm glad to feel the wind's damp breath.