Forecast Tracks.

Take Ana and Claudette off the big board: Ana fell apart, and Claudette came in and rained on Florida and Alabama and spun around a bit. Claudette is what you hope for if you're parched and hoping for one more okra harvest. Ana's probably what you never hope for—seems like every time something comes strafing through the Caribbean we get all those awful pictures of mudslides. And Bill? Bill looms, the forecast track a little all over the place, a little further towards the US mainland every time you check—looks like the Ph.D. holders over Weather-Channelward and NOAAward are still looking for that traditional back-out-to-sea hook, but if you're one of those folks who likes to check the three- and five-day cone, then new cones come out four times a day from your friends at the National Hurricane Center, so, you know, have a peek if you like.

Cicada-hot here—they go all day long. Yard's turned crispy. The trees still look green, and a little lush, even, but I don't think it's just my slight readying for fall that has me thinking the green of the maple out the back window here looks a little shinier than it has, like a tomato getting ready to go ripe. We're mid-August. There's nothing anybody can do about that. This is as hot and dry and sad as we get, but the nights are shorter, and up Virginiaward this past weekend, the mornings and evenings both were cool. If the wind drifted right, you could smell something different at its edges.

Seems possible my head's got a cicada or two going in it. Characters out back starting to feel like characters. School coming. German Johnsons yielding. Dog rubbing her face on the guest bed still on the den floor from two weeks back. Home from Virginia, from hardwood flooring, from family. Long day in a Charlotte mall yesterday, where the weather went by in the skylights and the tweens went by at ground level. Home again with a couple of lampshades and a coffee mug or two to show for it. Home again, home again. What next? I need a five-day cone.