On this cold and windy morning, young Charles is the happiest cat on earth. Home! Home! Home! As soon as I released him from his travel crate yesterday, he began racing through the house, screeching around corners, hurling himself onto rugs, rolling around in ecstasy, throwing himself into our arms. He kept this up, with only mild breaks, from midafternoon till 9 p.m., when he got into bed with me and finally fell asleep. According to the kennel owner, he was an excellent guest--playing, cuddling, even making friends with one of the other visiting cats. I believe her: Chuck is the kind of guy who makes the best of his circumstances. But he sure is thrilled to be home.

Yesterday I caught up on housework and laundry, changed the sheets, did most of the grocery shopping, fetched Chuck, and otherwise reestablished our nest. Today I'll turn my thoughts to poetry. I've got my Tennyson homework to read, thoughts to sketch out for the conference faculty performance, notebook scratchings to revisit. I'm immersed (again) in Updike's Rabbit Is Rich and have two new novels waiting in the wings: Rachel Kushner's Creation Lake and Andrew Miller's The Land in Winter. Why not take a cue from Chuck and wallow in it all like a pig in clover?

And if I get tired of being cerebral, I can go for a slippery, windy walk; or mess around with my very slow cleaning-the-basement project; or make gnocchi; or finish the grocery shopping; or have a little private dance party in the kitchen. The day is my oyster.