Dog Walk.

What to say about our little almost-fall? That when I left the house for the dogwalk, the air smelled like school? That long sleeves seemed a not unreasonable idea? That it was firmly in the low seventies, that our fog hadn't yet burned off, that the couple clumps of men waiting by vans outside of houses to do roofing and painting seemed to have an easy day in front of them? And then what about this? By the turn, down there at the bottom of the hill by the park, the fog had broken, the cicadas were cranked all the way back up, the temps were already pushing hard for eighty, were promising, in fact, what the fancies are promising for the week: we may get cool mornings, and cool evenings, even, but in between, it's best to remember that even if all indications are to the contrary, it's sure as hell still August, still summer, still tomato-and-basil season, no real time to take the dog around the block wearing long sleeves. Don't get crazy just yet.

We startled a hawk out of a crepe myrtle. Thing had to weight ten pounds. Eye-level. Five feet away from me. The dog never flinched. I flinched a little. That'll rearrange the way you consider the food chain over the course of the day.

Hot and probably dry coming. Water your ferns.