It's 6:15 a.m. in Maine, and it's 79 degrees. Sleep has taken on a new meaning: a half-weave of stasis and breath; not true unconsciousness; more like relief from movement. Having no air conditioning is interesting, if exhausting. Mid-afternoon I feel my body at work, doing what it needs to do to stay alive . . . shutting down, idling in place. For the moment, in the "cool" of this morning, I'm back to some semblance of normal movement: making our daily batch of ice tea, collecting yesterday's sweat-soaked laundry. When I finish writing to you, I'll pick beans.

I was alone in the house all day yesterday, and despite the heat I accomplished a lot: finished editing someone else's poetry manuscript, worked on my own revision, copied out Blake poems, read Nabokov's Speak, Memory; and also set up a bunch of necessary appointments: vet, dentist, optician. In the interstices I mowed grass and ran the trimmer (ugh), made peach ice cream, baked bread (ugh); put together lamb kebabs and a fresh corn salad, watered the garden, and picked a bushel of kale. Despite the heat, it was the sort of day I love: a balance of physical and mental accomplishment, with space for private creation. P's work schedule will be uneven--a mix of days and nights and off-days and weekends--so I won't have any regularity in mine. But now and again, I'll be getting these chances. They'll be something to look forward to.

And in good news: it's my older son James's birthday . . . he's 26 years old today: and, as always, a delight and a joy . . . funny, sweet, hard-working, resourceful, sensitive, smart. How did we get so lucky?