Summer Song.

Here is one stolen minute, or one wee bunch of stolen minutes, all at once: a cheap ice cold beer from the fridge, the Toad asleep in the swing, AMR asleep on the sofa, madre de AMR asleep at her hotel, at least two different kinds of cicadas cranked outside, dog asleep on the other sofa, cats padding the rooms, air conditioners grinding away at this house and at all other houses, big heat like a low headache that's been hanging on for days. I am tired, frustrated, in want of my other life, the one from before, but: from the downtown market there is chicken, there are shallots, baby red onions, new potatoes dug this week, and German Johnsons, and from madre de AMR there are mountain cukes. The light is yellowing into evening. I cut the lawn last night at eight. It rained at ten, and though it was nowhere near enough, I appreciated the gesture. There's no way tonight goes like it's supposed to, or any night for the foreseeable future, but maybe the answer is: cook things that can stand, that don't have to hit the plate at any one time. Find ways to wait, to shift, to pivot.

The plumber called today. The shower, which he wants to install before all the walls go up out back (so he can actually get it inside the walls), goes in on Monday. Which means after that, all the walls go up out back. Big week. Big summer. Big everything, all the time, always. Except this one little beer in these few minutes. And listen—you hear that? Toad stirs. Time for what's next.