Island weather. The fog is thick this morning, and the tang of ocean strong, even up here in the non-waterfront district. Hidden by cloud, a gull hollers. An invisible merchant ship hoots twice as it lumbers out of the Fore River into Casco Bay.
Close by, somewhere among the maples, a Carolina wren trills Tea kettle tea kettle tea kettle tea! She pauses, then sings again; pauses, then sings again.
The house smells funky, like a rental cottage during the rainy season--dampness settling into rugs and couch cushions, closet doors swelling into their frames. The covers of paperbacks curl aggravatingly, and the salt dish is impenetrable.
Strange mushrooms are sprouting everywhere; desirable ones as well. Yesterday afternoon Paul and I went for a walk in the cemetery and found a big cache of puffballs, which I fried up for dinner. Eating them is like eating a big forkful of woodsy marshmallow. Today, maybe I'll ride my bike further into the cemetery and see if I can cadge some more.
I might have time to play, because I'm doing very well with my editing pile: four manuscripts finished, a poetry consultation underway, and probably I'll begin on the academic journal this afternoon. I definitely feel more relaxed about taking three days off to gallivant around Queens with my kid.
But I also need to grocery-shop, and weed the strawberry bed, and pick beans . . . Much depends on the weather, which has been unsettled for days. Do not think I am complaining, however. The rain is a blessing, even if my house does smell like a wet bathing suit.