I spent this morning wrestling words into order and the afternoon wrestling roots into the ground. It was a satisfying combination, especially followed by a particularly challenging yoga class. But it doesn�t make for very good diary fodder, at least not know that I am utterly worn out.

The yard is looking its spring best. The plum tree is still blooming, but now so are the lilac and the quince. The bright yellow marsh marigolds are flourishing by the stream, rivaled only by the equally yellow wood poppies. The bleeding heart and some creeping phlox I planted this afternoon add their brilliant pinks to the yellows. I planted some tall grasses to fill the hole left in front of the enormous spruce by a decaying shrub that finally gave up the ghost in last summer�s drought. I moved some vagrant plants � irises and rudbeckia that had turned up in some rather odd places � to the edge of the stream.

My husband is downstairs finishing a story. AJ is sleeping. The house is quiet. Even the raccoons, who have been kicking up a racket most evenings this week, are quiet. The only sound I can hear besides my fingers on the keyboard is the trickling of the stream. It is all peace and quiet and resting at the moment, but it feels like we�re gearing up for something, like it�s the quiet before the storm, although I can�t quite tell you why.

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