June 22, 2021
Deep rain in the night, on into silver morning. I was grateful.
Found mail from 29 Lakeshore ripped up and thrown under my roses. Met Keith, whose mail it was. He hadn’t known it happened. His envelopes, having contained something other than books, represented actual loss.
The summer days stretch out like eons, warm, unhurried, uncluttered, and I bless every minute of them. Did a power of writing today, though it was long ago in the morning, so I barely remember. May summer last and last. . . .
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