Yesterday was strikingly cool, the temp never climbing out of the 60s, and I made leek soup and cheese biscuits for dinner and slept with a blanket pulled up to my chin. Now, an early-morning chill seeps into the house; the darkness hints at September; I begin to imagine stoking a wood stove again, and brewing hot tea.

I'm not sorry to see the brutal heat fade into the past, but I wish this autumnal turn would carry along some rain. No such fortune, however.

I never did get to writing yesterday, but I did catch up on some of the heavier outdoor chores: running the trimmer, hauling soil. This morning I hope to go for a bike ride, after I water and hang laundry, before I dip back into my editing pile. I may or may not go out to the writing salon tonight; I may or may not snatch a chance to ponder my notebook scrawls. I feel somewhat overwhelmed by work, somewhat unable to justify my own spaciousness. That will pass, I know, but for the moment I'm driven by duties.