Today the fields turned their dark faces to the new spring sun. Montpelier sandbagged against the swelling streams, and there was a robin perched high on the branches of a tree in the gulley where the new powerlines are going in. I have yet to figure out how writing will fit to this life and this schedule. On the drive I listen to books - Rushdie's Fury last week, Campbell's Hero With A Thousand Faces this one - and I can feel little strands of poetry unfurl, twine, and drift away, as they always do when I read. When I get home, there is dinner and my share of the dishes, cuddling, guitar, and early to bed. I am not used yet to being on my feet all day - remember that for most of the last year, my primary job was sitting. I never get used to getting up early - even that whole time of sitting, the wake-up bell was a torture (a practice opportunity, as they say) and an alarmclock with a sweet and snuggly boyfriend beside me is no easier.

Still, there is a beauty to being awake and alone and silent for the dawn. I have my morning oatmeal ritual back, some yoga, some tea. As the days grow and warm, there is time for a walk in the evening. This morning I woke with a quiet happiness thrumming in my breast, imagined myself robinbreasted, with drab dark wings and the wriggle of new life in my teeth.