Conditions are foggy this morning, with a vague patchy drizzle; temperature cool but sticky; breeze nonexistent. A chitter of birdsong ornaments the pulsing, endless, barely audible squeal of the cicadas--soundtrack of late summer in Maine.

Yesterday I finished up another editing stack, then cleaned floors, then went out to buy a few more plants for the new bed: this time, autumn-blooming plumbago, anemones, and astilbe; and, for spring flowers, a pair of shade-loving creeping phlox and a compact mountain laurel. I've got more editing to finish today, and a few other desk chores to get through, and then I'll clean bathrooms, drive to the vet to pick up the cat's flea medicine, and stop at the nursery to pick up two more summer sweet shrubs for the little hedge I'm making. And then, for the moment, I'll stop planting.

Today should be pleasant-enough, weather-wise, but another round of heat is arriving at the end of the week. Tom and I are heading south on Friday to spend the weekend with his parents, and temps will be miserable down there. But at least their house will be cooler than ours.

I'm still reading Tessa Hadley's The Past, still cogitating over a poem draft, still trying to rediscover how to spend these long days alone. But yesterday flew by: I felt like I couldn't get everything done that I'd planned to do, and not because I was sitting around wasting time. So I guess I'm managing.

* * *

Only the cat, padding between the roses, 

Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern 

As water is broken by the falling of a leaf. 

--from "The Garden at Midnight" by Amy Lowell