It's very dry outside--not a speck of rain in the foreseeable forecast. I am watering every afternoon, a tedious chore but necessary if I'm going to preserve any of this ravaged garden. Yesterday I picked a fistful of green beans, some lettuce, some basil, some blueberries: a sorry show of August bounty. Better than nothing, of course, but disheartening. 

Mostly I've been at my desk, chipping away at my editing project. Possibly I'll finish it today; if not, I should get it done by tomorrow. This afternoon I'm zooming with Teresa and Jeannie, which will be a pleasant vacation from all of this nose-to-the-grindstone. It will be Little Chuck's first zoom experience . . . Ruckus was always awful and had to be locked out of the room, but maybe Chuck will focus on being adorable and forget to wreck the place.

I've been reading Graham Greene's Doctor Fischer of Geneva and now I've returned to Iris Murdoch's The Green Knight. But I haven't yet touched my stack of Whitman poems or my friends' manuscripts. Soon, soon. Once I get through this editing job, I'll find space to be a poet again.