Last night, for a dinner party, I made a peach pie; and though this sounds like hubris, I think it really may have been the food of the gods. What a pie it was.
So here I linger, in the humid morning, drinking black coffee, letting the breeze sift across my shoulders and thinking about the second peach pie, uncut, that still sits in my refrigerator.
And I'm thinking, "Tom's home for another whole day!" And that I will walk out into the woods and hunt for chanterelles this morning, before the torrid sun gets busy.
Three dahlias in their tiny jars. Wind through an open window. A robin singing. Summer.