Lake Hebron is a different world this morning. After a day of fog and downpour, I woke to blue skies, a rim of pink-tinged cloud rolling over the far shore, tree shadow and ripples, the cries of blackbirds and frogs, the tap of last night's rainwater running off the roof onto the deck behind me. 

For some reason there are no bugs. None. Not a single mosquito. I cannot figure this out. In my day this was the Land of the Insect. If I were sitting outside with bare shoulders on an open deck, I would also be writhing and slapping incessantly. What is this strange calm?

Yesterday was a long day, a hard-work day, but I think things are going really well. The group is focused and friendly and excited, new faces integrating with familiar ones, already some tears but good and useful ones. For the first time I began a teaching conference with a poem that wasn't Robert Frost's. This year we worked on two--a Richard Wright and a Czeslaw Milosz--and we spent the whole day on matters of form. The change was actually pretty exciting.

I'm decently rested this morning and ready to find out what happens next.