I forgot to mention skunk on yesterday's Alcott House wildlife list. One passed through the yard last night, and the smell gave Little Chuck quite a surprise. In other news, maybe we've finally conquered the bat problem. I found a gap behind the trim on one of the bedroom windows, which T caulked up last night. Here's hoping we've finally plugged the hole.

Not much desk work will get done today. The sweep is coming this morning to clean the chimney, so I will be on Little Chuck patrol. Then I'm getting a haircut, and then I'll have to bake something or other for my evening writing group, and in between times I'll scrub bathrooms and get started on floors, if I can take my eyes off that cat. Wriggling into soot seems like a hobby he'd really enjoy.

We're supposed to get some rain this evening and into tomorrow. I hope that's true. A good soaking rain would be so pleasant. Yesterday I cut the season's first baby cabbage (magically untouched by the groundhog) and stir-fried it with fresh red onion, soy-roasted tofu, and lots of cilantro, green garlic, and Thai basil. I do love kitchen-garden life--wandering out late in the afternoon to ponder "What do I have? And what can I do with it?" It is such a luxurious way to cook.

Teresa and I are beginning to cogitate about next year's conference theme, and the word that is resonating is transformations. I thought, during the stress of the past few weeks, How will I ever dredge up the energy to invent new plans? But now I am full of ideas and excitement about new plans--next year's conference, my upcoming Poetry Kitchen class, my high school sessions. And I have a new poem draft, and I'm going out to write again tonight . . . It is such a relief to feel my mind back at work.

Yesterday was so hot. But today should be somewhat cooler, and then tomorrow and Thursday we've got rain in the forecast, so maybe Maine will become more like Maine again.

Early this morning we had another bat in the bedroom. We can't figure out how they're getting in, but clearly there's a gap somewhere. The Alcott House certainly has had its share of wildlife excitement this summer: deer in the driveway, raccoons in the flowerpots, groundhogs munching up the cauliflower plants, squirrels scrabbling in the walls, bats flitting over the bed. Of course I am grateful there haven't been rats, which is what our Chicago kids have to deal with.

At least Little Chuck enjoyed the bat. "It's a bird! It's a mouse! It's both!" he squeaked. "This new home has everything!"

I'll get back onto my mat this morning, then back to my desk. I've managed to pull together a decent draft syllabus for my upcoming Poetry Kitchen class, I'm making good progress on the editing project, and Teresa and I have started to rough-cut the shape of next year's conference. My brain is beginning to function normally again: my imagination is returning; I'm starting to think again. It seems silly to chalk this up to "I've got a pet in the house," but honestly that's what's made the difference. I'm so much happier, so much more pulled together, when I've a little body to hug and tease and chide and (maybe this is most important?) story-tell about.

It looks like the torrid heat will be back today, but the big bad news is that a groundhog has found my garden. Sigh. I never had groundhog trouble in Harmony . . . raccoons, deer, moose, yes, but not the portly devastations of a groundhog. He is maddening and I have little recourse other than to shake my fist and hurl curses and wish that someone with a humane trap would come take care of the situation.

Meanwhile, Little Chuck digs into his litterbox like he's racing Tonkas in a sand pile. I've never seen so much litter on the floor. The animal life sure is lively around here.

Still, I am getting work done. At my desk I've been switching back and forth, back and forth between editing and teaching plans, and gradually one pile is getting smaller, the other getting larger.

[Upstairs, opening a drawer, Tom says, "No. Hey. (Pause.) HEY." Little Chuck says, "Yow."]

This afternoon Teresa and I will meet for the first time post-conference to talk about how the session went and what we might want to start thinking about for next year. So much seems to have happened since I left Monson, but it will be good to dig back into that world. Things went really, really well: participants and faculty were excited, even thrilled, by what ensued with our collaboration prompts and performances. I'm sure Teresa will have ideas about next steps. Now that I'm back on the rails (sort of), maybe I will too.

I am trying to write to you about rain and fog but Little Chuck is determined to type, and his grammar is inscrutable. If any peculiar asdfiawefagswegasdcs show up in this letter, assume that they refer to snuggling and cool stuff in the basement.

Meanwhile, I am taking advantage of his sudden need for a snack to return to the topic of rain and fog. We got a beautiful afternoon rainstorm yesterday, and I think more rain overnight too. As a result, this morning the neighborhood is soaking wet and layered in mist, and the garden looks drunk. Yesterday's laundry is dripping on the line, the maples are laced with cloud, and the air has the briny sea-scent I love so much.

Today is Monday, a back-to-work day and also my older son James's 31st birthday. He is a delight and an amazement to me . . .  such an extraordinary being--hilarious and capable and determined and patient and kind and smart and endlessly curious--and I don't know how I got so lucky. As my friend Gretchen said yesterday, there's some sort of magic in these children. Look at all the mistakes we made. Look at how magnificent the children are anyway.

I'm glad I had a quiet weekend at home . . . well, not quiet, given Little Chuck; perhaps cozy is the better word. It was good to have a little cat racketing around, good to hang out with T, good to do a few tasks and work on a poem and read comfort novels and listen to baseball. I feel more or less ready to return to my desk obligations today. This morning I think I'll also get back onto my mat and start relearning my cool-season exercise routine. I tend to let the mat stuff slide during the summer, what with all of my yard and garden hoisting and squatting and lugging. But I should start reacquainting my body with autumn. It's coming soon enough.

Little Chuck was up early this morning, chasing a leaf around the bedroom. Yesterday he discovered a cache of leaves in the basement, autumn detritus tracked or blown in during wood stacking and lumber moving and such. Delighted, he's started carrying them upstairs in his mouth, one by one, as if he's caught a mouse, and then pouncing on them till they fall to shreds. It's amazing how much noise one dry maple leaf can make at 4 a.m.

So here we are, Little Chuck and I, awake too early on a Sunday. After his leaf fun and a nice breakfast of fish oil and four kitten Greenies, he's sitting sweetly on my hands as I attempt to type this letter to you.

Yesterday I caught up on a few harvest chores: cutting bunches of oregano, dill, and thyme for drying; also batches of wheat grass and hydrangeas for winter bouquets. Now they are festooned in the back room, wilting and fragrant. Today I'd like to sow some more fall-crop greens and herbs, though this deepening dry weather is not ideal for seed starting. Altogether, it's not been a great garden year, weather-wise, but I did cut a big batch of chard, the cucumbers are thriving, and oddly the okra looks promising. For dinner I braised chicken thighs in lemon, garlic, red onion, and oregano, then tossed them with cilantro and Thai basil. Alongside we had new potatoes mixed with green beans, a chard tian, and a salad of mixed greens, cucumber, feta, and mint. For dessert: homemade lemon ice cream and local blueberries. Summer food is the best food.

And finally, after weeks spent focusing on other people and other people's writing (and on sorrow, of course), I dug into my own notebook and started messing around with a draft. It was a relief to feel my mind return to its private rehearsal room, playground, empty stage, open field.

Yesterday was hot and humid, and the a/c was blasting all day. This morning is cooler, but the air quality isn't great--Canadian smoke, presumably--so I may be closing the windows again shortly. Still, it's pleasant to find myself at Saturday. The past several weeks have been ridiculous--all of that hard conference work, then losing Ruckus, then the trip to Chicago, now this new guy in town . . . highs and lows and highs.

But the new guy is--dare I say it?--nice. I am not used to such a thing. Ruckus had many magnificent characteristics, but nice was not one of them. He bit and scratched; he was packed with grievance and vanity; and while he was an enthusiastic family member, he was, as my son would say, a lot. I'm flummoxed by this new and unfamiliar beast: a sweet-tempered cat. Yesterday I clipped his nails, and he just sat in my lap purring. Ruckus would have removed both of my hands.

The name is still in flux, but we are experimenting with versions of Charles . . . Chuck, Chip, Charlie. Presently he is bouncing around on the couch playing with the string bookmark attached to my notebook, and his ears are draped with spiderwebs from the basement. He's full of beans, a cheerful little busybody, and it's really hard to type when he's around.

I've got no particular plans for the day, other than puttery home stuff. I would like to take a look at a poem blurt; I should harvest chard and sow some fall-crop greens; maybe I'll mow grass or weed, but in this drought neither chore is essential. We really need rain, but that's not in the offing. Meanwhile, I'm getting ready to reread The Scarlet Pimpernel, a ridiculous book that I have loved since childhood. The politics are terrible, the plot is absurd, the characters are stagy and silly, but I enjoy them all so much. It's the book version of an Errol Flynn movie.

This little cat has been in the house for less than 36 hours, but he has completely settled in. I've never seen a pet acclimate so fast: no slinking under couches, no shyness about strange hands and voices, no litterbox confusion, no pining. He is a comical, cheerful, sweet-tempered little imp, who readily settles down at bedtime and even let me get work done at my desk yesterday.

We still haven't chosen a name, but we're cogitating.

Otherwise, things are quiet around here. I'm back to editing, back to class planning, back to garden and house things. I've been rereading Lampedusa's The Leopard, one of my favorite novels of all time. I went out to write last night and maybe scribbled a blurt worth looking at again. Here's hoping.