It rained all day yesterday, just as I hoped, and I spent it peacefully: first, walking out for breakfast with friends, then walking home to read and write beside the fire. The day was punctuated by phone calls from my children and notes from friends and family . . . nothing could have been better. I even scratched out a new poem draft.

But today I am back in the saddle--deskwork in the morning, driving north in the afternoon, teaching tomorrow. It's the start of my busiest stretch of the fall, including my first weekend class of the season and then two book launches next week. Here's hoping I can hold up, now that I'm old.

Outside the air smells of wet tea leaves, the comforting autumn fragrance of decay. Last night for dinner I picked out two big round fruits from the bushel baskets in my living room and made fried green tomatoes. The freezer is full of sauce and chicken stock and kale and wild mushrooms, and the firewood is stowed in the shed. I feel a little sad about driving away, but then again I always feel sad about driving away.