May 1, 2012

Thunderstorm away to the east last night. I sat on the porch and watched it moving slowly south. It had those defined, pencil-scribble bolts you remember from childhood, some in pink, some in gold, some in neon white. Whenever they flashed, the white peonies and the white iris and the white roses of York lit up in the garden.

Fantastically intricate dreams, remembered in detail at waking.

A bluebird landed in the garden. Blessed.