A moment ago I switched off the noisy a/c, and now the house is flooded with birdsong. The neighborhood is very quiet, more like a Sunday morning than a weekday. Summer rhythms . . . yesterday the high school girl who lives across the street lay on her stomach in a strip of grass reading, reading, reading, and I thought I might cry from the sweetness of it. Though of course most anything can make me cry these days. I am leaking tears, just as I did in the months around our move from Harmony. "Don't mind me," I used to tell people. "This always happens."

Still, despite the constant slow drip, I'm getting used to Ruckus's absence--to sitting outside without him, to climbing into bed without him. I can't help but imagine how angry he'd be, watching me manage. He had zero confidence in my survival skills.

Yesterday morning, before the heat kicked in, I worked in the garden--planted second-crop greens, did some weeding, ran the trimmer. Today I'll meet a friend for a walk, then do a bit more weeding, and eventually return to desk obligations as the day warms. I'm waiting for a big new editing project to appear. I've got prep to do for my upcoming Poetry Kitchen class. I suppose I could try out a poem draft, but writing the cat's obituary seems to have sapped my fluency. Unfortunately I'll miss my Thursday poetry group this week as that's the night we're flying out to Chicago. So the only words available will be the ones I stumble over on my own.