There was no rain in yesterday's forecast, and yet there was rain . . . off-and-on showers that wrecked all hope of dry laundry and a cookout. Still, I dodged the drops, or sometimes didn't, and managed to pound in tomato stakes, set bean and cucumber trellises, plant escarole and spinach and cilantro, finish the backyard weeding. I have no complaints about the rain: a young garden adores these regular small downpours. T and I did manage another late-afternoon bike ride together. And then, in the evening, we played cards by the fire, and ate shrimp and macaroni, and watched Humphrey Bogart and Gloria Grahame suffer from the torments of love, as the rain fell and the tulips bloomed.

Today is supposed to be gloriously sunny, temperatures in the mid-sixties, and of course it is Monday and everyone has to go to work and school, even me. I've got a new editing project to start, a manuscript to read, class prep for the weekend . . . but I daresay I'll get outside. I'd like to swing over to the nursery and buy some parsley and thyme plants. I'd like to sit in a sunny spot and purr.

Already the sky is bluing. The air is humid and fresh. Maybe I'll eat my lunch outside. Maybe I'll read the poems of George Herbert while lying in a hammock (actually, probably not: given the delicate condition of that paperback, the poems of George Herbert would scatter like a flock of pigeons). Maybe I'll open the windows and fill the rooms with flowers.