Evening. . .

Night. Storm seems to be coming from all directions at once, if never quite arriving.  I pray for it on the curling leaves of the acanthus, which I forgot to water. The stinkbugs begin their migration again. There are a few in the house, many more on the screens trying to get in.  But at the studio they are a plague, a frenzy, a horror. You set a painting aside to work on another, and a bug is on it before you get the brush lifted. The grooves of the wall are full of them, or fragments of the last generation. You strive not to let it turn your stomach.