Sorry for the somewhat late post: our internet has been down for several hours and is now wonkily attempting to reassert itself. So you may or may not receive this letter. We'll see what the electro god decrees.

The neighborhood got a speck of rain early this morning, not enough to wet much more than the cat, though he managed to get himself soaked. So I suppose I'll be out with the hose this morning, after my bike ride. Watering is a boring chore, and an expensive one, but my shrubs are too young to weather a drought, and the vegetables need constant moisture.

Otherwise, I'll be at my desk today, wrestling with my new stack of editing, working on Frost Place stuff around the edges; and tonight I'll go out to the salon to write. 

I feel a little dull, nothing new or scintillating to report . . . just the same summer round: garden and desk, garden and desk. T and I have talked about taking a weekend together in Boston, but neither of us has done anything about planning that, so who knows. I put gas in my car yesterday and realized I hadn't filled the tank since I was in Vermont at the beginning of June. That is how no-place I've been. My drive up to the Thomaston reading on Sunday will be a real novelty.

On the other hand, I am good at staying home, so this is not a complaint.