Dog Days.

Little breeze. Storms far south and far north late afternoon into evening, but they could only be seen and not heard. Big beautiful thunderheads, though, for those of you so inclined to mark such things. Also to be marked down: sprinklers were employed late evening here in the ANYLF Demonstration Gardens (for the first time this season).

July comes in looking a lot like what I remember May and June looking like in years past: summer for certain, but still cool mornings and nights. Maybe not so cool that you'd drag yourself to a place where you'd say you didn't think you needed the A/C, but cool in the shade, cool on the porch, cool enough once it's dark to come back from wherever you've been, get out of the car, and think it might be a fine idea to sit out a while.

Tiny halting forward progress on some new pages out back. We shall see. Tiny halting progress out of NYC on the old pages. We shall see there, too—which leaves one only with the weather, I guess, with watered ferns and impatiens, watered petunia beds. And if you liked today, then you'll love tomorrow: a dittoed copy, apparently. Maybe a degree or two warmer. Maybe a little slimmer chance of seeing a storm ride by on the horizon.

They call the cicadas we're hearing in these parts dog-day cicadas. I think we're all probably contractually obligated to love that. July, July. How much summer have we got left? Not enough, friends and fans of these slowed days. Not enough.