Yesterday, for the first time this spring, I hung laundry on the outside lines--always a banner day. All afternoon I caught glimpses of the towels whipping in the breeze. Tiny daffodils bobbed along the fence line, and the cardinals sang and sang. It wasn't an especially warm day, but it was bright, and after so many days of rain the plants rejoiced and the neighborhood cats rolled around luxuriously on the paving stones.

I have been reading the essays of E. B. White, always such a delight. Though he was writing in the 1950s, his talk of Maine small towns and weather and local people and livestock feels like my world too. And he takes such delight in his sentences. Revisiting his work is sheer joy, and I recommend it to all of you.

Do not think I've given up on Henry James. But he is a rich and heavy diet, best consumed moderately.

Today I'll get myself onto my mat, get sheets onto the line, and then spend the morning editing at my desk. In the afternoon Betsy will come over to talk about our presentation at the Plunkett Festival next Saturday. And then this evening I'll go out to write.

What I am longing to do is to plant peas. Maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow.