Yesterday was hot, but still I kept the windows open, even overnight. I think today may also be tolerable, but the scorch is arriving tomorrow and eventually I'll have to break down and turn on the a/c.

T and I spent a lot of time in the yard this weekend--meals and cards at the outdoor tables, books in the chairs and the hammock, cooking at the fire pit. On Saturday night we walked to a Sea Dogs game (Mikey Romero: grand slam!); on Sunday I went for a walk with a friend and T went for a bike ride. But I didn't do a ton of garden work: mostly I just enjoyed hanging around among the plants and flowers.

But now we've returned to Monday. Upstairs T is creaking back and forth over the squeaky floor, chunking his dresser drawers shut, musing for a moment at the bedroom window. Outside a squirrel chatters and scolds.

First thing this morning I'll walk with another friend, and then Teresa and I will meet for our final conference planning session: we'll go through the schedule item by item, double-check every session syllabus, work out presentation and performance issues, make checklists of materials, fret about travel and timing and luggage. Naturally I'll have overlooked something and will start panicking. But that's always the way.

Meanwhile, Alcott House is cool and dim this morning . . . roses and yarrow glowing on the shadowed mantlepiece, fans hushed, birdsong pouring through the screens, air caressing my bare shoulders.

I have been writing a poem about war.