A soft rain fell all night, and this morning the maples are dripping and the crickets are singing and a purring, wide-awake kitten is sitting on my hands as I try to type. Suddenly it's Friday, suddenly August--somehow this week has flown by. I suppose that's Little Chuck at work: he's a sunbeam, for sure.

Last night I went out to write and now I have a couple of new drafts to play with. I do have editing to work on today, and floors to clean, and sheets to wash. I need to get onto my mat, and haul the trash and recycling to the curb. I have a friend's manuscript to read. But it's sweet to have those drafts floating in my notebook, waiting. And who knows? Maybe I'll find the nest of an hour today, when the poems rise up to greet me.

Through the open window, an unknown bird repeats, repeats, repeats its metallic squeak. Summer . . . every year an elegy.