We had a crazy storm yesterday--huge winds, torrential rains, branches down everywhere, including a big leaf-laden bough that whirled out of one of our backyard maples and shattered over the fire pit. 

Portland got close to two inches of rain, and this morning the yard is stunned and sodden. My pink dahlias are smashed face-first into the sidewalk, and everywhere stairs and streets are laminated with a slick of wet leaves. The storm feels like a message from the future: maybe, "the world is not in your control," or "never forget winter," or possibly "finish that damn shed."

Still, my in-laws somehow managed to get into town with a minimum of trouble, and we spent a lovely evening chattering and eating and playing cards. Today we'll probably go looking for lobster, or amble into shops, or wander along beaches, or otherwise entertain ourselves in some kind of low-key way. And then eventually we'll come back to the house and I'll figure something or other for dinner, probably a quick mussel chowder with the leftovers from Friday's steamed mussel feast.

In the meantime, I'm wallowing in a pleasant late start to the morning. I've got a lot of laundry to deal with, and I ought to go outside and check on the giant busted branch that's draped over half the backyard. I'll get to it eventually. For now, I'm gazing at the jar of zinnias I wisely picked before the storm smashed the flowerbeds, I'm watching the watery morning light weave its way among the golds and greens and reds that glow outside every window. The house feels very sweet this morning, a little boat moored, tidy and shabby, and not quite watertight.