May 8, 2015

Before dawn, under the gibbous sinking moon, when there was just enough light to tell weed from cultivar, that was me in the garden hoeing, spreading mulch on the places hoed. The bird families in the hollies peeped a little and then went silent till the coming of the light. It was mystical. Less mystical but still sweet are my muscles aglow and limber.

Charles’ retirement party at St Mary’s last night, a trip to the Reynold’s Mountain Thirsty Monk afterwards. Reynold’s Mountain is one of those sad attempts to create a neighborhood out of pure greed. I remember the foxy fields that lay there before, studded with boulders the size of trucks. They were better.

Mumford & Sons on Spotify.