Another weekend of not going canoeing, but the rain has been wonderful for the gardens, so I am not complaining. Then last night, just before dark, fog moved in from the cove, and the yard became a green mystery, cloud twining among the chairs and shrubs, melting the birdbath to Grecian ruin, the grass to Arthurian sward. The little northern city by the sea became the fount of romance, Tennyson's imagination in miniature. I expected a white arm to manifest from the fire pit, a sword hilt clutched in its lily grip.

But this morning the fog has vanished, and the air looks exactly like Monday, gray and practical, a day for vacuuming and mopping and driving to work. Tomorrow is my last high school class of the season, and I've caught up with the editing carousel. So maybe the next few weeks will be a chance to do some writing and manuscript revision before the exigencies of the conference intrude. For now, though, I am on Monday alert. Make a list. Rush around. Get stuff done.

Still, there's this bubble of quiet . . . liable to burst as soon as Chuck races down the stairs or T creaks up from the bed.

Outside, a jay squawks: Ack ack. Ack ack.

The bubble trembles but does not break.