In that liminal space before being full awake, I am thinking about the need to water the garden. Then, as if the clouds have heard me, the rain spills and spills. Through the open windows I hear the pleasant rush of it, and I think, how wonderful, how unexpected. I know the day will turn nice, and this early morning rainstorm is a wonderful garden refresher. We take a day trip to see a dear friend in Duxbury, and it is sunny and warm with a pleasant breeze. The water is cold, but both my daughters, myself and my friend Liz dive in and refresh ourselves, chatting away. Home in the late afternoon, I nap in the car the whole way as Frank drives. And I am glad I do––there’s a kitchen to clean up and laundry to do, and I want to get a poem for tomorrow morning. I face the blank page. I read a couple of poetry and creativity books a bit to get something going. I am blank still. How is it that I finally get started? It happens, and I have a first draft. Frank and I go out at dusk with the mosquitos and the dogs to see the garden and I end up watering everything because it has been a hot day. A new ending line comes to me for the new poem. When I go in I write it down. I will sleep on it tonight and send it in the morning. When Brittany wants to go in the car with my daughter she barks and barks and barks until she is invited. This is their special time, their special bond.