Almost May.

The first few crickets are back. I am reading Saul Bellow's letters in the New Yorker. The mint has taken over the side of the driveway. Hot days are coming. The hum of traffic out on Friendly and Market seems just understoried enough to be right. It is not cool out there, but it's worth having the windows open. Edward arrives in six weeks. The finches in the right-hand fern are about ready to fledge. Those in the left-hand fern are at least a week behind. Tomorrow: tomatoes from the farmers market. Tomorrow: whiskey up the street with the neighbors, in honor of the horses. Tomorrow: other and various tasks as yet unnamed.