Torrential rains, and a warm wind. It feels like hurricane weather without the fear. I slept till 7:30, which is ridiculously late for me, and I am still tired, though not in a bad way. Playing in a bar is exhausting: so loud, so full of rambunctious beer drinkers and guys who mistake me for someone younger and wink at me, but also everyone dances and claps and people play the spoons and pound their glasses on the tables and sing along, which of course is delightful.

Today will be a different sort of day: quiet, scattered with bread baking and pie baking and dusting and stove blacking and a Dickens novel and afternoon baseball on the radio. And spent with Keats also because again, and yet again, autumn murmurs its wistful song:

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
            Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
            And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
            Among the river sallows, borne aloft
                        Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
            Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
            The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
                        And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.