Little Storms.

It's warmed. It's not been as hot as they said it would be, though it's been close—but we're not in that can't-even-sit-in-the-lawn-chairs-after-the-Toad's-in-bed place yet. We're in the opposite place, in fact: the humidity's been just low enough these past few evenings to set up shop right out back, ice in the glass, a lime, bare feet in the grass, a few deep breaths. I'm trying to enjoy it, even if it's not my season. Tomatoes in the new front planter. Fireworks from the stadium downtown. Woodwork in the shed. The tiny seed of a new story, a new something. Tragedy out on the edges of things, but that's always there. Just more distinct these days.

Soaked the tomatoes in some manner of fish and seaweed blend before I put them in the ground. Smelled like all hell. Five days in they're the greenest plants I've ever had.

And (Sub)Tropical Storm Beryl. Let's just say that out loud and let it lie.