Alright, friends and fans of weather, of toads, of dogs, of slightly unseasonable coolness, of set-in rains, of new ballcaps, of 90s countdowns on cable TV, of the Phillies losing when the Braves lose, of ice in the glass, of boy kings asleep upstairs, of coyotes sacked on the sofa, of wainscoting hung flat and true and square, of smooth drywall seams, of nearly completed renovations, of tile contractors returning calls, of longer light, of the sure tilt towards fall, of cats—for fuck's sake, even of cats—let there be this: tonight TLK and I rode in the rain to Burlington, got to Burlington, discovered that of the two teams meant to be there on the field only Burlington was there, waited for the other team, drank beer, watched the other team (post-repaired bus) arrive, watched—and this matters—a local attorney sing the national anthem sans sound system, heard the crowd hush itself in order to hear her render it just right, or right enough, watched the teams play an inning, watched it rain again, drank another beer, came home. There is talk of a months-long experiment involving sun-fading the new black Burlington ballcap on a cedar stake in the garden. There is talk about how hats just aren't what they used to be. There is talk about the talk. There is ice. There is the glass. There is the sleeping child. There is the coming weekend. It's still summer. Don't be confused. The light, though, by the by, says we should be confused. And the temperature. And the rain, a different rain than regular summer rain. And the cool edge to the too-hot morning breeze. Long sleeves, people. Long sleeves. Now is not the time. But one could imagine the time. Or a time. Maybe. Long sleeves may be out on the far horizon. I've been a week away from this. Every time that happens I remember what a mistake looks like. There has been weather. It has gone unreported. I apologize.