Altogether Unmoored.

This is the not-season: not hot, not wet, not cold, not fall, not summer. The cherry tomatoes are yielding all at once, one last time. The grass is crispy as a doormat. It hasn't rained this month. The dog has had not-arthritis, but is coming through—thanks, crazy dog pain pills made from New Zealand mussels. This is the full event, mitigated. Which is how the weather is. I always forget this season, maybe because it is not a season. We'll have something for you soon, surely. But not now. Not yet. Not tonight.

It does not even feel like tomorrow is Friday.