I ended up planting yesterday: not only beans but also most of my flower seeds--cosmos, nasturtiums, sunflowers, and some ornamental grasses.

The tulips are glorious this year; I never had nice ones in Harmony, so these are a surprise and a delight, and I can't resist spreading them all over the house.

But the gray skies continue to cling. Spatters of rain erupt and pass. The weather is so odd, such perpetual cloud. Perhaps this is what it's like in the Pacific Northwest, but I don't know: I've never been there.

In between my gardening stints, I'm still devouring novels. I feel like a bottomless novel pit, which is to say I'm reading like a book-drunk 12-year-old. Just like always, being a novel pig is both embarrassing and magnificent.