Baby Birds.

It was in the fifties already by the time I made it out this morning, but the airport is reporting a bottomed-out low of 48 in the five and six o'clock hours -- I am not totally sure that my behavior warrants weather this good on the eleventh of May, but I'll take it. I will for sure and certain take it. Low humidity. Wee breeze. Fledged wrens and grackles and robins everywhere. Everything green on green. Daylilies trying to bloom, though in this cool they may slow a bit. Volunteer tomato in the front flowers: for now we'll leave it, I think. Why the hell not a tomato in with the lantana and dianthus and petunias?

The morning's great crisis: a lost toy ambulance. I just tore the house apart door to door and then found it where I'd looked five times already, in the toy kitchen, of course, on the bottom back shelf, nosed just over and up against the wall. On the heels of this great victory, then, an all-windows-down trip to the big box for another try-out quart of paint for the shed, another color indistinguishable from the last, one that this time will ideally make me almost think I can sort of see an exceptionally light grey -- this instead of the one that's swathed up there now, which almost makes me think I can sort of see an exceptionally light tannish pink. It's a big decision, the color of one's built-by-hand vaulted-ceilinged writing shed. Walls and ceiling all the same color. That I've got it down to three almost-white paint chips I can't quite tell apart is a matter for another time, a time when it's not so crushingly beautiful out.