I woke up around 3 a.m. to the sound of rain; slept again, fitfully, against the tap of drops, the rush of wind. Now, at 5, I watch dawn open in a slate sky. The heavy-armed trees swirl. Rain rattles on paving stones; it hushes the dust-torn street.

We have two days of off-and-on storm ahead, and the garden will be happy. Yesterday I tore out the bolted spinach and radishes, sowed dill and cilantro and a second crop of carrots. I thinned the first crop of carrots, transplanted chard, replanted the bug-eaten beans.

The early June flowers are glorious . . . this weigela, for instance, which blooms in three colors outside my back door.

The first white rugosas are unfolding . . .

. . . and nearby, velvet Siberian iris consort with the first golden lily.

Then there are the peas, pride of the garden, loaded with blossoms.

All of them will bask in these rainy days, and I will put on my raincoat and wander among them. Mostly, though, I'll be at my desk: editing academic essays, working on a class session for the conference, catching up with emails. First thing, I've got to take my car to the garage and get an estimate for a new air conditioner, which my father is presenting to me as a gift . . . a very, very kind gift, after my Vermont trips over hot roads. It will certainly take the edge off of the travel angst.