The fierce heat is moderating, but everything is still so dry. Despite all, the garden thrives. Every morning I walk out to see my zinnias, bursting with color over the sidewalk, and check the progress of the okra. I planted both green and red varieties, but the green (which is white-flowered) is well ahead of the red, so I have yet to experience the red's crimson, hibiscus-like bloom. Soon, though: buds are forming, and a warm rainstorm would do wonders.

Today: I'd planned on a day alone, but P's work schedule got changed, so that won't be happening. Instead, I'll try to finish an editing project, then maybe go for a bike ride and discuss some sort of dinner-making extravaganza with him. I've got enough kale to freeze, enough peppers too. I could clean and store the shallots and garlic that have been curing in the shed. I could empty compost bins and pitchfork the half-rotted compost into its next resting place. I could order firewood.

Yesterday I picked out new glasses frames and ordered new stronger lenses, which I sorely need. I visited with a sick friend. I read Blake's poems and Nabokov's memoir, and thought about childhood--how we remember and forget it, idolize and dismiss it. I spent an evening alone with Tom, and we ate our dinner (blue Chinese bowls filled with chicken curry) outside in the gloaming, as the sound of a baseball game filtered through the windows.

Little kindnesses: the soft air, a friendly touch. Cat at our feet.