Deeply Dry.

Listen. It's been hot. It's been dry. Oppressively dry. Stunningly dry. Even though it rained, it's been dry. And the Braves have been losing. Which is not the weather, except that it is: to follow baseball is to wait for disappointment, to wait for everything, really. And here we go. We've lost ten of twelve, or eight of ten, or x of y, or something. It does not rain and the Braves do not win. And it's been hot. Except: even in the hot, even in the nineties, there's a low spot in the road on the way home from the puppet show where the air is tree-cooled, creek-cooled, a little low air conditioner, and in the evenings the light's all long, and longer still down in the dip in the road, and even as the Braves lose and lose, you think: OK. Fall. Autumn. September. Headed home. Something.

The electric goes in the writing shed tomorrow. The tile goes in the writing shed tomorrow. Dear sweet baby Jesus manning a rented router, the writing better go in the writing shed pretty soon. I can do the puppet show. I can do the Toad. I may even be able to do new drought. I cannot much longer do this no real writing thing. Enough trim. Enough white enamel paint. Enough everything but for selfish time at the selfish desk.

The cats are yowling at passing ambulances. The dog is not. I don't know that it'll ever rain again. And the fancies want nineties for the next however many days. Ninety, let's say. Randy Newman put the Toad to bed tonight. The Braves lost this afternoon. It was hot all day. And dry. It's fall. It's trying, really trying, to be fall.