Watering In.

6:45 in the evening and the hose smell of the little sprinkler running on the new ten thousand petunias. Has it rained? It has not rained. It rains no more here forever. But it's deeply green everywhere, altogether green—we're waiting on nothing else to green over. We are headed hard for summer, even if today's excellent temps say otherwise.

Will it rain? It may. It may rain any of the next few days. Or it may rain none of those. Drought's not far from here and may be creeping back Guilfordward. Clouds, though: we had clouds, which was at least of visual interest, a kind of looming question mark all day, a sort of half-hearted wondering at what had gone wrong with the light, whether we'd turned the dimmer down too far.

I can hear the ballgame from this front porch.

Petunias. Haven't had a sun garden in years.