Another torrid night, another sticky morning, and birdsong is such a balm.

This evening we'll be flying to Chicago, so this will be my last home morning for a few days. As a routine, nothing could be less spectacular--sitting alone on a couch at daybreak with a cup of coffee--yet such dim little habits are what soothe me into and out of the clatter of the world. Now, upstairs, the bed creaks; I hear Tom beginning to open and close drawers, hear the thud of his bare feet on the floorboards . . . the workday is yawning and blinking, and soon I will lift my face from these words and turn toward my beloved's smile.

We are looking forward to our travels, which, as travels go, should be easy. We're flying out of Portland, so no connecting bus to Boston, no wanderings through massive barracks. A friend will pick us up at the house and within ten minutes drop us off at the little Jetport, with its mod name and miniature halls. We'll fly directly to Midway, avoiding the angsts of O'Hare, and our son will be there to greet us. The trip sounds so simple, like wafting. I hope it really will be.

So tomorrow morning I will write to you from the urban thickets of the Midwest . . . sausage city, prairie town, big hick burg trembling under the endless rattle of the El. You know the legend, and some of it is true. I'll let you in on some other stories as I bump into them. What I do know: The Red Sox will be playing against the Cubs at Wrigley Field. People will be grilling hotdogs by the big lake. Cats will be a large topic of conversation. I will regret my ignorance of Spanish.