Fifty-two degrees this morning! The breath of autumn sighs through the open windows, and my bare ankles are cold. I sit here in my couch corner, reading about the Asshole's current indictments, and think, "How nice it is not to have to spend the rest of my life in court." The Asshole may deride such as me, but I  am blissfully free of lawyers and felony counts. I think that makes up for not having a gold-plated toilet.

The new editing project has arrived, so today I'll go back to work in earnest. Meanwhile, autumn looms: Teaching schedule is filling. Car is, according to the nice garage guys, "all ready for big trips." Firewood delivery is arranged. Now I need to get the sweaters hand-washed and the coats dry-cleaned. August is a season of to-do lists.

Yesterday I picked the first two cherry tomatoes. Beans are coming in steadily, cucumbers are in full flower, and I've got enough blueberries to make a pie. I've started rereading Philip Roth's Sabbath's Theater. Black walnuts are falling chunk clonk onto the roof of the neighbors' abandoned SUV.

I feel brisk and ambitious on a cool morning . . . ready to endure my exercise regimen, ready to dive into the murky editorial soup, ready to stack firewood and puzzle over Donne. Good thing I don't have to spend this beautiful day screaming at my Three Stooges lawyers and blanketing the internet with misspelled lying all-caps screeds. That stuff is such a chore.