Last night a storm whipped through, but now at daybreak the lake is hazed and glassy, the birches as still as listeners. Bullfrogs belch, blackbirds whistle; and somewhere, invisible in the ring of trees, a pileated woodpecker emits its harsh antique warning.

I live alone in this cabin. Each morning this week I will wake to this private view, this northern lake, with its fringe of mountains, with its dots of cottages peeking among the water-rim trees. It is not a lonely place. Monday-morning trucks cruise steadily north and south, heading to work in Greenville or Dover-Foxcroft, hauling loads to Skowhegan or Rumford or Bangor. Yet even though I can hear the traffic, the cabin feels separate from that busyness . . . tucked away, a secret.

I work hard at this conference, but I also have real time off: moments like now, this sweet lonesome hour: this lake, so quiet, a mirror of rest. In a few minutes all this will change: Teresa will pop around the corner of the cabin, I'll get up to pour her coffee, and we'll dive into the minutiae of "How do you think yesterday went?" and "What do we need to remember for today?" and the lonesome hour will shatter into the absorptions of the day.

Yesterday went well, I think. I began by dictating a tiny poem by Paul Celan and then giving a writing prompt. We talked about the specificity of how Celan controlled the transmitted emotions of the poem. Then we read an Anne Sexton poem and I offered a writing prompt that led, among other things, to a discussion of structure and a poet's signature moves, and eventually small groups worked on constructing their own questions and prompts. Then in the evening everyone shared two favorite poems by other poets, an event that turned out to be extremely moving, and a new way to get to know one another: by the tremble in our voices when we read aloud what we love.

I take such pleasure in doing this work, such pleasure in watching tension shift from shoulders and faces as the poets settle into the serious play of the conference, into the serious dedicated richness of this small age we spend together.

But I am glad to be alone for a few more minutes, watching low clouds bumble against the blue-gray ridge beyond the lake.

* * *

Tonight's collaborative faculty showcase: Gwyneth Jones has choreographed a dance to a poem by Gretchen Berg, which she will perform to several different accompaniments, one of which will be me on violin. Gwynnie and Gretchen will also be showing clips of larger works they've done together in the past, and then will invite the audience into impromptu participation as well. Performance takes place in Tenney House, 7 p.m., and is free and open to the public.