Trim Work.

Sweet baby unseasonably cool Jesus this has been a nice week. It all starts to shut down tomorrow, but this—we didn't deserve this, nobody deserved this, this was not by us the thing of which we might have been deserving—no matter. It came just the same. And yes, friends and fans of weather, my heart grew however many sizes. I'm three rolls of goddamn blue tape in on the trim out back, and this morning's coat of ultra white enamel looks like it'll need two more yet, but it's not been eighty in three days, so let's us not go in for complaint.

Except for the smell of street in the neghborhood. For seventy-two hours they've been promising to pave in the next twenty-four. Today, late, they made good. Guns and butter. Government work. Your tax dollars at play.

What else? Nothing. We orbit. We trace our lines. Sometimes something transits the sun.