May 26, 2008

Spent the morning weeding–which, given the state of the weed beds, is more like excavating. The cicadae make a high drone over all the world, ceasing abruptly at dusk.

I’m sitting here before my computer screen. It is almost dark. I feel that summery feel of tried sweat and sunburn under the white shirt I put on because I wanted to drink iced tea and sit on the café terrace and read Brideshead Revisited. Heaps of weeds dry on the dirt, or did dry before the light sprinkle of rain began. I have worked hard today. My tiredness is virtuous. A lover might visit. A lover would be welcome. Other than that, I don’t know what I would need tonight. One bird, a robin, still sings almost hysterically in the dark. What a strange heft to the night, melancholy, passive, heavy as old marble under miles of sea.