Shortly

All the daisies are suffering dessication. The last gardenias have shriveled to brown clumps like small wads of old newsprint. Yesterday I sprayed the jasmine hedge, dislodging thousands of tiny dead flowers. A few white flowers still live, but there are too few to scent the air. Alger came to eat this afternoon with dozens of nettles clinging to his fur. Whenever I return indoors from walking in the yard I must pick dry foxtails from my socks. Two thirds of the summer still lies ahead.

Fortunately the trees are still leafy (or needly in the case of the pines) and provide plenty of shade. The slight danger of being crap-capped by a bird is no deterrent to seeking shelter from the sun under their boughs. So far I've escaped soiling. It's better at night when I can sit under stars, which do not defecate, and most of the birds have gone to sleep. Evening even brings an occasional breeze to blow away the memory of the torrid day. It's too bad the nicest nights of the year are also the shortest.