Morning Inventory.

Pretty little hot and humid Wednesday morning finds our hero up early(ish) and finished drawing the coffee down into the pot and finished letting the dog out and back in and finished feeding the cats and—I know I keep saying this, friends and fans of weather of all kinds, but this is what it comes to—waiting for the Toad to finish crapping his pants. It's not like it's some manner of emergency if you guess wrong and into the middle of that process, but a clean diaper is a clean diaper, and a dirtied one is dirty, and there is not much in between. It's like rolling up the truck windows before a thunderstorm: best, on balance, to guess correctly.

Ten or fifteen wrens are congregated on the east end of the outbuilding back there—I'm hoping it's just a neighborhood association dustup, and not that they're eating some massive conflagration of termites or carpenter ants or any other six-legged sometime-winged creatures taking flight. Short version: I'm wanting the birds back there just to be stopping through. I do not want them participating in much that would have a word like ecosystem attached to it.

Holding patterns: for the electrician, for this afternoon's court date to settle my braking mishap out on 70 back in May, for something that looks like plot to arrive like a small flock of birds and set down on the half-novel back there. For the Toad to do whatever the books say is supposed to come next. For a longer night of sleep. For a clear hour to ride to the big box and come home with the next long list of what the building wants and needs. What has already arrived: a cup of good coffee, the Dumpster truck to remove the leavings of the folks living in the apartments catty-cornered back behind us there, another day with a reasonable threat of rain. Cicadas. Sunshine. The last ten days of a blurry month.