Fog thick as a fist, and now a whisper of rain begins to fall; it slits the dense air like a shiver, though I doubt we'll get much watering benefit. I expect I'll need to start running the hose again this afternoon, which is a disappointment.

Wednesday morning, on the last day of August. The neighborhood is quiet. Most families seem to be away, a last hurrah before school starts next week. Next door a woman has slowly been moving out of her apartment. Across the street a penned-up cat glowers through an upstairs window.

For me, today will be another giant work day, this one spent slamming through hundreds of footnotes before P arrives tonight. I am making good progress but oy. My brain feels like cheese.

And now the rain is picking up speed, a delightful sound. Maybe I won't have to water tonight after all. A petrichor breath floats in through the humid dark. Raindrops clatter on the new metal shed roof, bounce off the air machine, rattle against windowpanes.

My heart lifts, despite the footnotes.