Last night was our first baseball evening of the season, and it was a beauty (though our home team lost, and deserved to).  Late in the afternoon we walked down to the barbecue place near Hadlock Field and filled up on deliciousness, then toddled across the street to our seats and sat in the third-base gloaming among cheerful families and hoarse little boys, watching foul balls sail into the crowd, watching seagulls cruise for hotdogs, puzzling over why Irish Night at the ballpark seemed to involve bagpipes and kilts . . . There is nothing to match the sweetness of minor-league baseball on a summer Saturday night. And then afterward, the walk home in the almost-dark--fragrance of roses and peonies, murmur of other walkers, windows glowing gold, the last streaks of day smudging the sky.

And now I am full of rest and vigor. I slept till 6 a.m., waking only when daylight was pouring through the shade. I'm not sure what the day will hold: some combination of housework and garden work, maybe grocery shopping, or maybe I'll shuffle that off till tomorrow. I did get bathrooms and mowing and a chunk of weeding done yesterday, and always there's more to do. But I don't feel too pressed. I might give myself some time to work up one of those poem blurts I wrote on Thursday night. I might talk Tom into helping me install the air conditioner in my study window.

Today will be hot, and more rain is coming in tonight, and the garden is vibrating and alive. The summer, the eloquent summer, so brief and glorious.