Today, for whatever reason, I'm wishing I owned a biography of Byron. Otherwise, I'm not wishing for very much that I don't already have because yesterday (1) my third book officially entered the world and (2) I got a haircut. Of course if I concentrate I can start fretting about the current state of my writing, which has indeed been frettable, but even that seems to be improving slightly. My cabbage and broccoli seedlings are wishing for warm nights and a drenching summer rain, and the poodle is wishing for the pork bone that I gave to the old great pyrenees in the barnyard. James is wishing to pass his driver's-ed test today, and Paul is wishing to hit a homerun. Tom is wishing to be finished with the renovation project that never ends, and, to be honest, I now find myself wishing that I'd used sour cream instead of yogurt in the cheesecake I made yesterday. See how quickly the dissatisfactions return? How can we help ourselves?

So I hope you'll pardon that silly paragraph, and meanwhile I'll remember to notice that the bluejays are screaming, the haze is beginning to lift, chickens are cackling in the henhouse, and a goat is standing at the barnyard gate staring reproachfully at the house. The world is sending me a thousand messages, and some of them need answers, or at least a question, or at least a nod, or at least a handful of grain. What was it that Dryden said? "For mankind is ever the same and nothing is lost out of nature, though everything is altered." That is a remark that suits every single day of my life.