I didn't do much of what I imagined I might do yesterday, other than process blueberries and go to the fish market. Instead, after I stuffed the freezer with berries, T and I drove to the Eastern Prom and then strolled along the water, into town and back. Our ostensible goal was the fish market, but mostly we were in it for the tern-watching: such mesmerizing birds, with their sharp triangular flight, sudden needle-drop to the water's surface, then rapid sweep back to sky, a silver fish wriggling.

At the market we bought a handful of scallops for ceviche, a sliver of bluefin for crudo. I baked a small custard cornbread as accompaniment and warmed blueberry cobbler for dessert. A summer feast. 

And now suddenly it is Monday again. Outside the neighborhood is cloaked in fog. Rain is forecast, but so far only a vague drizzle has seeped from the cloud weight.

Yet now, suddenly, a patter of drops, small burst of down-drop, the whisper settling in. Clack of drip on vent hood and air conditioner, steady shiver of water coursing through the broad dry maple leaves.

I've got my weekly housework to deal with today, manuscript job to finish up, stack of emails to answer, Substack post to draft, fundraising letter to write, poems to record, wedding stuff to do . . . so many other this-and-thats. The list for the week is long, but at least I'm not traveling till Friday.

And this rain is a song. I hope it hums all day long and deep into the night.