Well, yesterday was a day.

At 10 a.m. Betsy and I drove from Portland to Augusta in torrential rain. On the highway my tires felt and sounded like they were splashing through a river, but at least it was daylight, I kept reminding myself. Things are bound to get better.

However, no. At 10 p.m. we drove home from dinner in Brunswick in extraordinary fog, so dense that in places I could barely make out the white lines on the highway. Beside me Betsy kept sighing, Oh, my, oh my. 

So, driving-wise, it was white knuckles from beginning to end. But then there was Natalie Diaz. She was a marvel--thoughtful and intense in the classroom, a skilled and generous reader of her own work, friendly and funny over dinner. It was a privilege to spend the day in her company . . . and how I would love to bring her to Monson, though I'm sure we could never afford her.

And then there was Betsy, another marvel. It was equally a privilege to spend the day alongside her: as a student, on the stage, in the car, as a pal . . . watching and listening to her--so smart and funny and affectionate and vulnerable and sharp-eyed. Poets like these are humanity at their best. I know I'm always asking this question, but: How did I get so lucky?

***

That said, I am extremely glad to be home. While I will admit to a sense of accomplishment as a driver, my eyes feel, even now, as if they're ready to leap out of my head and roll around on the floor.

Here I sit, on my shabby old couch, blinking into the watery morning dawn. Though the fog has lifted, the sky is furred with cloud, and I can see that the rain-soaked maples have swelled into full blossom. Earth is sodden, plants and songbirds are jubilant. I fit right in. Even tired and squinty, I can sing about love.