At the end of the street, a train rumbles past, wheels squealing. Then silence for a moment, until the gulls start up. Their squeals are not so different from the train's, and now the squawking jays are rusty gates opening, and the sparrows beep their brassy chip chip chip. So much bird metal.

Sunday morning. Sunshine, and a clothesline sagging with sodden clothes caught in yesterday's not-forecast thunderstorm. But the rain was not a bad event for the garden. I tore out a patch of old lettuce, thinned baby chard and kale, cut kohlrabi, pulled carrots, then filled the newly empty spaces with spinach, cilantro, and lettuce seeds. So the rain was help, and now the sun will be a help. And the clothes will dry eventually, and the refrigerator is full of greens.

Today, I'll mow grass, do a bit more weeding, go for a mushroom walk, read more Donne, read more Roth.  Play darts with Tom. Work on a poem. Last night, for dinner, we had grilled lemon chicken, new potatoes with dill, a salad of cucumber, kohlrabi, carrot, and lettuce, cantaloupe balls with mint and vinegar, and the last of the blueberry pie. Tonight, bluefish en papillote with couscous and peppers, wilted baby greens with garlic, a tomato and feta salad, and who knows what for dessert but likely it will have blueberries in it. This time of year, every meal is a feast. I do so love to cook from a kitchen garden.

The poem I'm working on is set on a mountainside. I'm not sure it's a mountain I've ever been to. The setting is evening. The season is summer. The sky and land "are gods / vast and impatient." I'm having a hard time thinking of anything else but this poem.