I went out to the salon last night and wrote at least one pre-draft that might have potential, and I'm looking forward to stealing a few hours to mess around with it some more. The new editing project is moving along very quickly, so I can allow myself a dab of writing leisure today, in and among the other desk tasks. 

It's only 59 degrees this morning, but the humidity is kicking up, and I think we've got a hot and sticky day ahead of us. I haven't turned on the air conditioner for weeks, but the time is coming. Last night we had a small thundershower, and for the moment the garden looks steamy and self-satisfied, though soon the sun will burn away the veil of moisture and we'll return to parched deep-summer. I still haven't found a single summer mushroom--not a chanterelle, not a puffball. The dryness runs deep.

I've been reading about baseball in 1964, I've been puttering among words, I've been listening to birdsong and the hiss of locusts. I've been writing run-on sentences and collecting dirty towels into a basket and wondering what to cook for dinner. Portland is presently chockfull of state governors and I'm hoping not to run into DeSantis or Noem on the street. The visions dance behind my eyes and I call them dreams and I cannot remember them when I wake up in the morning. It is parched deep-summer and the small rains trickle into dust and dry grass and my bare legs are scratched and bug-bitten and my bare feet are dirty and this could be the story of 1972 and I could be seven years old.