Saturday morning at the Alcott House. Already, at 5 a.m., it's 50 degrees in the little northern city by the sea, and temperatures are supposed to rise into the low 70s. Such warmth on the heels of that magnificent rain! High spring is about to explode.

Yesterday afternoon, just after the downpours stopped, I drove to the nursery and bought flats of tender annuals, a cherry tomato, a couple of peppers, basil. I'm looking forward to planting them today. I'm looking forward to tonight's first outdoor meal of the season. I'm looking forward to the library's annual book sale. I'm happy to be doing none of this quite yet.

Outside, a Carolina wren sings. A male ruby-throated hummingbird whizzes around the corner of the shed and settles briefly at the feeder. Inside, Young Chuck hops down the stairs, pauses to stare at me through balusters, chirps a question.

On the coffee table: Cather's The Professor's House, Komunyakaa's Pleasure Dome, Barrett Browning's Aurora Leigh, Sebald's The Rings of Saturn. A reprint of a 1930s WPA guide that I found on the street. A book of Sunday crosswords. James Agee's film reviews. Some art books that I can't differentiate from where I'm sitting.

On the mantle: A vase of early iris, their velvet purple so dark it's almost black. A posy of pale candytuft, forget-me-nots, golden spurge. A handsome clock that doesn't run.

I spent a chunk of yesterday trying to sort out scheduling, and I need to do more of that this morning before I rush outside and forget my desk. I've got various reading invitations to respond to, and also it looks like Monson, Maine USA, the performance piece that Gretchen, Gwynnie, Teresa, and I were rehearsing in Sarasota, will be hitting the road: first, at the conference in Monson; then, in the fall, at a festival in Blue Hill; then with a show here in Portland. But juggling the schedules of four different people and three different venues has been challenging. Apparently this is why bands have managers.

Someone, I forget who, told me that the Vermont poet laureate has an assistant. What a concept.

Now the first streaks of sunshine dapple the neighbor's vinyl siding. An invisible muscle car revs and fades. The kettle I just filled begins to grumble on the burner.

Saturday hoists itself out of bed, clears its throat, sniffles a little, sighs, starts hunting for its slippers.