Half an hour ago a torrent was sluicing from the cabin's metal roof, downpour churning up the lake. But the rain has settled into drizzle, and a solitary loon floats among the drops. In the photo he is the black speck in the center; my phone couldn't zoom in any closer.

Probably this is the same loon we saw last night before dark as we sat on the dock and dangled our feet in the water. He was close to us then, yet unfazed by our presence, intent on diving and eating. He was a ship, solid and supple, sitting low in the water, sleek black mast curving up from the pale surface.

Now, as I describe him, try to write his body onto this page, a mysterious wail arises. He is out there on the lake . . . body vanished; a mythic voice.

**

We finished our performance last night, and again the room was filled with audience. Some of the locals came to all three shows. It's hard to explain how meaningful this felt.

So today is a transition day: we work in the morning; then the afternoon is free, and participants will read in the evening, with a party afterward. Then, for the final day and a half, we move into a new writing project. It will be good to take a breath this afternoon, and then bring all of our attention into celebrating participant work.