Clouds have moved in, but no rain yet, and maybe there won't be any after all. I have a few new seedlings and transplants to water, so I'm not actually against rain today. On the other hand, I'd like to dry towels on the line. Whatever happens will be perfect--I'll get to be happy and annoyed. Ah, the human condition: it's so silly.

This morning I'll take my walk and then steal an hour to read Shelley before getting serious about housework. And then back to my editing stack, and back to weeding and mowing, and then I'll go out to write tonight.

The days have been so full of work. I was glad to spend half an hour with a friend who dropped by for ice tea in the afternoon, but that was an anomaly. This editing project has been driving me hard, and unfortunately I don't think I'm going to get it done before I leave for New York on Monday. Oh, well.

I've been rereading a sad LeCarre novel. I woke in the middle of the night filled with anxiety about a rosebush. I've dreamed about leaving Harmony, again. Melancholy creeps along the small trails.

* * *

There's still ONE opening left at the Conference on Poetry and Learning at Monson Arts. Please consider joining us. It will be such a good gathering. Honestly, this year's participants and faculty are stellar. You will not be sorry. Nor do you have to be a poet. Or a teacher. Though if you are one or both, that's excellent too. The thing is: the labels don't matter. What you have to be is you.