Yesterday was one of those surprising days when I got a good-sized paycheck in the mail but the guy at the garage said I didn't need a brake job. Imagine! Money not spent on the same day it was acquired!

Plus, I got a lot done at my desk (a chunk of novel-editing, two Frost Place intros drafted), and I washed the floors. That's what happens when pouring rain keeps me out of the garden.

Today will be cloudy and cool, but the downpours are over for the moment. I lit a fire in the stove last night, and I may again tonight. But the plants look happy nonetheless. I think my chard and kohlrabi grew twice their size overnight, and soon I'll need to stake the tomatoes. The peas are climbing the trellis; the beans are thick. Columbine buds are unfolding. Thyme flowers blaze between the stones, and the backyard is pretending to be a lawn. After I finish my desk work, I'm going to the hardware store to buy a hummingbird feeder.

Last night, as dark was settling over the neighborhood and the rain was sluicing down, I stood at my study window staring out into the backyard. The green was so intense; my eyes drank it in, greedy for every drop. I don't love this little patch in the same way I loved my Harmony woods. But I'm learning to love it for itself.