Lovely Morning. The wren sung me awake again. Throw open all the doors, the air is skin temperature with enough power to blow away the mind-altering smog. Can’t believe it has come to this in my lifetime. But the swallows jumped into the sky as soon as they heard the motor start, and Baby John and I finished mowing the back 40. Well, more like the back six. At least the part that I got to last year. Maybe the back three. But that’s done and now we move to the studio.

I love the little tight cling of grasshoppers’ hands when they jump on to your finger and look straight into your eyes as though — if you would only listen properly — they have something important to say. I would so like to listen, but I suppose I should eat. Wash dishes. Get to work. I have to summarize all of genetics in three or four paragraphs for tomorrow’s blog, and chapter three will be written except for the fun part..

Bon journee.

The swallows went on home to wherever swallows go at night. Around and around I mowed the pasture with my little green mini-tractor. The sun slunk behind a screen of hazy clouds, the color of a fuzzy, tree ripened peach, reminded me of a long-ago California back yard. Bare feet. Sweet, sweet ripe peach I haven’t tasted in over 40 years, except just one time in Georgia. Around and around in the dusk I mowed until Bitsy gave up waiting and went home. I turned on the headlights. A nighthawk, a couple of bats zipped overhead. When the bottoms of the clouds started to paint up I stopped. Nothing spectacular. Just a few bright swipes across the sky behind my neighbor’s truck graveyard. Missed most of High Lonesome on KEOS. Worth it.