In the Valley of the Moon

 

June 29, 2021

Infinitely modulated summer day. When I went to get the mail the front door was still locked, by which I realized I had not left the house the whole day. 

Spent some of last evening rejoicing in the families that have pulled through in my garden since the end of winter: a pair of red-shouldered hawks, still together; a pair of brown thrashers, still together; a pair of catbirds, still together; a pair of cardinals, still together; a pair of red breasted woodpeckers, still together; so many bluejays I don’t know who is mated with whom. Rabbits and baby rabbits graze at evening. An immensely fat woodchuck takes up residence under the took shed, hardly able to squeeze in. I’ve bought foul-smelling stuff to convince him to leave, but it hasn’t worked yet, and until it does I grudgingly appreciate him trying to climb my pear tree for a fruit the bears missed.

Working hard on In the Valley of the Moon, which is sliding along with the ease of imagination and vigor of expression I recognize in my best work. An imp in my skull asks, repeatedly, “Why bother, since excellence is not what is wanted and it will never reach stage?” Too many fellow imps whisper “Maybe.”