After weeks of high summer, the temperature this morning plummeted to 49 degrees. The times they are a-changing. In more ways than one.

Last night my subconscious decided to sic the Trump boys on me:  Eric was upstairs berating me about my politics while my son James was projectile-vomiting all over the bedroom. Meanwhile, downstairs in the kitchen Junior was vandalizing my kitchen faucet and then hiding in a closet and taunting me. Good lord. Let's bake a hurricane-wildfires-police-violence-black-bodies-damaged-white-supremacist-murderers-Covid cake, frosted with Republic National Convention. The NBA players were the only gleam in a bad, bad day.

On my tiny island, I read Blake. I moved a hydrangea and a peony.