May Day.

Just under the wire once more: what good's a weather forecast if it comes in at 11:53? Still. We reel into May and the weather rebounds and gives us that kind of warmth that promises both July and the several weeks before July, the weeks where it isn't so warm that you wish it had never warmed.

Two hatchling robins out front in the azaleas. The third a casualty of evolution or temperature or chance or the god of your choice. What robins do with a partially unhatched egg I don't know, but it's gone. Perhaps there's no time to mourn when we swing from three days of rain to nearly eighty degrees. I will send you all to the Google to find much more breathless chronicles of the lives of robins than this one — more than one eager webcammer has named his or her nesting pair Adam and Eve, which makes me want to name our two babies Cain and Abel, but I'll say this yet another time about the robins: something about these two five-day-old chicks reminds me again that life — eating and wasting, sleeping and waking — seems recklessly bizarre.

Look — about the weather — assuming that we get enough rain at other times, or assuming that you know that there will be the requisite number of rainy days, today was the day you hope for every day. Today was the kind of day that made me feel like the grandest dumbass of all time for being mired, at least somewhat, in a kind of art-related funk along the lines of art, comma, the uses of, and art, comma, can I make any.

May I. Can I be excused from the table? I don't know. I'm sure you can. But may you?

Wind blowing out there to end the day. Sound of the wind in new leaves.