Boy, Walking.

Not exactly. But: my parents, on a swing through town originally meant to barn-raise the writing shed's bathroom, stopped by for breakfast to drink coffee and admire the golden child and -- oh yes, friends and fans of wheeled conveyance -- put the stroller together. And then this evening I did saddle Edward James Olmos and the dog up and we did in fact make it several blocks out and back in a sticky warmish evening, low gray clouds sliding overhead, but not nearly enough to suggest anything sky-wise might happen now or later. This isn't quite weather. It's summer. And strip down to your skivvies, babies and parents alike—the coming week might not be any kind of time for much else other than bare feet and Pampers and cold beer, if you're of age. Even if you're not, you may get a cold beer anyway, particularly if you keep melting down at ten p.m. every damn day. We may end up in the nineties by the time this little late-week wave finishes up. We've had cool breezes in the mornings these past few days. Cool breeze even for the six p.m. dog-and-boy neighborhooding tonight. One wonders, though, how much more of that we've got in the bank for the short term.

Hope for thunderstorms. Hope for gentle mornings. Hope for sleep, for a stolen hour here and there, for cooler temps than have been forecast, for the idea of sitting at the desk some time in the not-too-far-off future.