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Clarity came to the sky and draped it with stars. There is now no hint of cloud shading the morning twilight. It would be best if today were not as nice as yesterday, which presented such an ideal of spring that I was drained of all ambition and accomplished nothing. If every day were so near perfection, I would be lost. The soft hours would beguile me, and in their thrall I would drift until shattered on the rocks of sloth. It is enough that my senses are drenched in the jasmine's perfume. Too much sweetness is deadly.
May. 19th, 2004
Bright afternoon gave way to a turbid evening of roiling cloudscapes made and unmade, but always denser in the west so that sunset was obscured and the day seemed inverted, an eerie glow like phantom sunrise lingering in the east. The cool air is expectant, and not even the sweet scent of jasmine can diminish the sense of impending storm. Hushed night trembles on the electric verge.
We picked the first of the cherries today. I have not known them to ripen so early. If there is not too much rain, nor any great heat to follow it, the crop should be good. Otherwise, the ripe fruits will split open and then be destined for quick canning before they rot. Either way, we will leave some on the trees for the year's superabundance of birds.
This is proving to be a most fecund season. The ornamental shrubs which were neatly trimmed quite recently have undergone such rapid growth that they already crowd into the adjacent walkways, making passage difficult. Deep within their shady masses, nesting birds can be heard to rustle by night, and gauzy spider webs cling like bits of captive cloud. All the fields and woodlands, the orchards and suburban gardens thrive with growth and bustle with creatures of every sort who feast or are feasted upon. Beyond the range of my hearing, I know, the soft quiet of the night is belied by a constant buzzing, fluttering and slithering. But all I hear is the soporific chirping of the crickets.
Soon, I may hear thunder. I have seen the flash of lightning palying among the couds, but thus far it has been silent. Still, I must put Sluggo to bed, lest he become the victim of a power surge. Sluggo and power: They must not be joined!
We picked the first of the cherries today. I have not known them to ripen so early. If there is not too much rain, nor any great heat to follow it, the crop should be good. Otherwise, the ripe fruits will split open and then be destined for quick canning before they rot. Either way, we will leave some on the trees for the year's superabundance of birds.
This is proving to be a most fecund season. The ornamental shrubs which were neatly trimmed quite recently have undergone such rapid growth that they already crowd into the adjacent walkways, making passage difficult. Deep within their shady masses, nesting birds can be heard to rustle by night, and gauzy spider webs cling like bits of captive cloud. All the fields and woodlands, the orchards and suburban gardens thrive with growth and bustle with creatures of every sort who feast or are feasted upon. Beyond the range of my hearing, I know, the soft quiet of the night is belied by a constant buzzing, fluttering and slithering. But all I hear is the soporific chirping of the crickets.
Soon, I may hear thunder. I have seen the flash of lightning palying among the couds, but thus far it has been silent. Still, I must put Sluggo to bed, lest he become the victim of a power surge. Sluggo and power: They must not be joined!