First thing this morning I opened a window and cool air floated into the bedroom. Instantly I turned off fans and a/c and the house flooded with quiet. Of course I've been grateful for the machines, but the racket is exhausting in its own right. Those window units are so loud.

After two days in the 90s, we're supposed to have highs in the 50s and 60s for the rest of the week, a bizarre reprise of our cold spring. No wonder my vegetable garden looks shell-shocked.

At least I'll be able to spend time outside today. I've got to mow and trim; I ought to weed as well, and I need to finish up the weekly housework. If all goes well (read: no new parent emergencies), my sister and brother-in-law will be arriving tomorrow to spend the weekend with us. Of course it's supposed to rain, but at least the streets won't be melting in the heat.

I'm starting to have stress dreams about Monson--a whole night spent moving furniture around and around the conference room. No matter how organized I pretend to be, my subconscious would like to remind me that really I am a ball of chaos.

Tonight I'll go out to write, which I hope will distract my brain from conference panic . . . and also give me some better poem starts. I have been writing dreadful drafts this week, one dog after another. I think the heat addled my imagination.

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By the way: there are only two spaces left in my August Poetry Kitchen class. Grab one now while you can.