Slowly the rain rolled in . . . a few fat drops in the afternoon, then downpours in early evening, then crashing storms at night, pounding the metal roof of my cabin, rivers of rain crashing, thundering.

Now, in the early morning, wildness has subsided to a gentle hiss. Drops patter into lake, tap-tap on deck and deck chairs. The grey scent of stone rises through open windows.

Today is my last morning in this watery place. Already the ribbon has loosened; already a few participants have vanished back into the world, and those who remain have shifted into a new sort of attention.

Teresa's homework prompt was to invent a form. She gave each of us one of four form names--puddle, thunder, twilight, porcupine. I got puddle, and so I stayed up late last night and got up early this morning to wrestle with what puddle might imply in a poetic shape. It's been a difficult and absorbing task.

We have a full day of teaching ahead, and then mid-afternoon the drive back to Portland, a pizza night with faculty, reunion with Tom and my cat and my garden and my bed. Still, though it's time, I am reluctant to break the spell.