Sunday

Tonight, I finally got to do the work that needed doing in my garden: dead-heading, clipping, pruning, weeding and transplanting my dying lavender out of the fine shadows of the orange mountain lilies, which are sentimental to me for growing wild on that one farm last summer.

This weekend contained many beautiful physical things: a rose moon, a handful of anise, a brushfire, a clutch of brown and murky bluegreen mockingbird eggs. Saturday night, the last coherent thing I remember is drifting off  all nuzzled up against Travis's leg with a sweet beagledog in my lap, which is so much to say that I cannot or should not complain, really, about anything.