It's the end of September, and the days are a last hurrah of summer. The drought goes on and on. The trees and gardens are exhausted. But warmth lingers on my skin, when I sit out on the stoop after dark.

Now, before dawn, a freight train squeals through the crossing at the bottom of the street. The kitten rattles around in a corner with a pretend mouse. A car door thunks; a motor grinds; a clock ticks.

Yesterday, for the first time in more than week, I managed to put in a full day at my desk. I finished editing a chapter and started the next one. I started blocking out my long-poem syllabus. I began roughing out my essay about Baron. It was a relief to feel my brain at work again.

Today will be more of the same, along with exercise and grocery shopping and garden watering and sauce making. I'm tempted to let the garden dry up at this point, but I would lose any chance of late autumn greens. Tomatoes are ripening in the house, but beans and cucumbers are still producing more than we can eat, though the plants are yellowed and weary. The harvest season has been strange.

For a week I haven't thought about writing poems, but maybe that desire will come back to me too, along with my desk stamina. It's amazing how much strength is required to fight even a minor infection. I look in the mirror and see how tired I am. And yet I've accomplished so little.

But clearly I'm on the mend, if not fully healthy. My mind has returned to me, in any case. Whitman's lines murmur in my ears. Woolf's sentences unroll behind my eyes. The words are alive . . . small birds fluttering, wings beating . . . each syllable a tiny heart, pounding.

Dare I say I feel better this morning?

Yesterday I came to the conclusion that I've probably been fighting a sinus infection, not just a regular cold. If that's the case, I'm actually doing pretty well--no antibiotics, my own body managing the argument, and now this morning maybe a little less congestion and sinus pressure, at least so far. There seems to be no point in going to the doctor. If this sinusitis is viral (which, given its link to the head cold, I assume it is), the doctors aren't likely to give me antibiotics anyway. So why pay money for someone to tell me to drink a lot of fluids and get plenty of rest?

Sunday was pretty quiet. I finished reading Baron's ms, made some progress on The Waves, even did a bit of editing. I baked an apple cake and prepped various foods for our cookout. I picked beans and cucumbers. I watched the Bills game and checked in on the Sox. In the soft evening air we sat around the fire with our neighbor and ate and chatted as Little Chuck wailed in the house.

But now I have to gird myself for work. I'm behind on my editing, behind on my writing and class planning. Being sick has slowed me down a lot. Fortunately I'm not traveling this week, so maybe I can catch up.

T went out to see a show last night, while I got into bed at 7:30 and stayed there until nearly 6 a.m. Will my purposeful bedrest take a bite out of this stupid eternal head cold? We can only hope.

This morning I feel kind of better, maybe. Anyway I don't feel worse. Yesterday I simmered tomato sauce and froze green beans and prepped dried dill, mint, and Thai basil for jars. T and I went for a walk. I made good progress on The Waves, definitely a sign that my brain is resuming normal reading function. But I was still congested and slow, and so far I don't think that's changed much.

Well, I will plod forward. We've invited our neighbor over for our final cookout of the season this evening: marinated flank steak and halloumi on the wood fire, and I'll make black pepper rice, an apple cake, and some sort of vegetable side dish or salad (green beans, cucumbers, chard, lettuce, tomatoes: my choices overflow). I might watch the Bills game. I might listen to the Sox game. I hope to keep making progress on my considerable reading obligations. If I'm going to have a head cold for the rest of my life, I'd better get used to working around it.

Good morning . . . a bit late as I was wakeful in the night and then fell asleep hard at dawn. That's one of the many nice things about Saturday morning: awkward sleeping hours are just fine.

While I was in bed, the Red Sox clinched their postseason berth. They'd been losing to the Tigers when I turned off the radio, so a win was a pleasant surprise. This team gives me heartburn. They're not at all reliable, and I can't imagine they'll go far in the postseason, but every once in a while they behave like contenders. And now Chuck and I can enjoy a few more evenings of radio together.

I don't have much planned for the weekend, other than various garden-related activities. I'd been planning to freeze kale--until that damn groundhog stripped the leaves--but I still have green beans to deal with, chard to pick, bunches of dried herbs to put into jars, tomatoes to sort. I'll probably forage for mushrooms, and I've got a lot of reading to do. And Chuck is hoping for plenty of family fun. Presently he is pressed up against my leg, occasionally reaching over to pat my typing hands with his paw, not to interfere so much as to remind me how much he loves me. He is the sweetest little guy, all black velvet suit and round baby stare. How can I not forgive all of his crash-bash clattering and litterbox mistakes?

Though the head cold still lingers, my energy is finally beginning to pick up. This past week has been a challenge, stamina- and concentration-wise. I did what I needed to do, but the circumstances weren't ideal. It is good to start off the weekend with a late rise, to sit here with young Charles nestled against me, to slowly drink coffee, to do nothing other than wake up quietly with these few words.

We got more than an inch of rain yesterday, and thank goodness. I'm anxious to venture out for a walk first thing so I can see how the fall mushrooms are liking this new weather. Maybe, just maybe, I'll come home with another haul of hens.

I'd like to say I'm feeling better, but I'm still breaking into coughing fits, still snorfling and choking like a Lewis Carroll beast. Ugh, head colds. Anyway, at least I'm sleeping well, which is a giant help. And Little Chuck is an enthusiastic nurse.

Today is recycling day and sheet-washing day. I've got stacks of editing, I want to start plotting my essay on Baron's work, I need to buckle down and read The Waves, but I continue to feel semi-crappy so probably at some point the red lights will start flashing and I'll crash.

For the moment, though, I am perched cozily in my old familiar couch corner. Chuck is draped against my shoulder, stuffed with breakfast and purring sweetly into my left ear. Tom is upstairs, yawning, creaking across floorboards, opening and closing drawers. I might be a cold-ridden hag, but these guys I live with are still pretty friendly. It's nice of them.

It must be raining lightly. I hear drops tapping on the vents, swish of tires on the street. I hope it will fall all day and all night and that I'll wake tomorrow to a dripping, sodden, satisfied garden.

Gretchen and I had a good trip north. On Tuesday afternoon, we wandered around the town's biggest abandoned quarry, then later sat outside on our deck in the oddly balmy air, drank wine with Lulu the chef,  played a couple of games of cribbage, and then I fell asleep like a rock. So my state of health was improved by the time I actually had to deal with kids . . . only a manageable amount of public choking and snorting.

The day went well; students, for the most part, seemed excited and eager; and it was fun to hang out with the teaching crew again. Then back we went to Portland, where Little Chuck awaited, longing for company. Despite his eager joy to see me, he'd been well behaved during his two long workdays alone. I found no giant messes upstairs or down. So for all concerned, the inaugural trip to Monson was a success.

Today I've got housework to deal with, a phone meeting midmorning, a stack of editing . . . the usual demands. The head cold still clings, and I am tired of it. But clearly I am not in charge.

Amazingly I just woke up from a solid all-night's sleep, a rare thing in a strange bed. All I can think is that the cold put its foot down (ooh, how's that for a mixed metaphor?) and demanded full surrender. Anyway, already I can tell I'm feeling a lot better, and just in time, jeesh, with those kids busing up the road this morning.

First day of school! Wish me luck.