Ugh. No rain, of course. The ground in my backyard is so dry that it's cracking. I'm mostly keeping the garden alive, but the nasturtiums are writhing and wilted, and the artichoke is yellowing. The tomatoes, however, appear to be bionic--6 feet high, glossy-green, and loaded with fruit. They love heat and humidity and can absorb moisture through their leaves. Still, nobody else's neighborhood tomatoes look like these. I think they are monsters.

I worked on a poem yesterday, did some mowing and watering, grocery-shopped, served on that publishing panel I told you about, marinated a flat-iron steak, made a potato salad. . . . Today I guess it will have to be housework. I've got stacks of editing to do, but I'm not going to think about that till tomorrow.

In boring marketing news: I'm tentatively reaching out to people who might consider reviewing Chestnut Ridge. I hate to be a pest, but reviews would be a novelty and a delight. Most literary journals do consider reviews; there are also online review sites. If you have thoughts about the book, I'd be grateful for a few public words.