the house is cold today. as usual, midsummer, a storm blows in off the lake and cools down the baking summer heat. myself and my garden rejoice.
from where i'm sitting, i can see every speck of dirt on the floor, every crumb i missed sweeping, black or white or dusty grey against the light wood floor. like a small army of tiny defiants.. the zealots, the patriots, the soon to be martyrs, they lie én challangé, daring the bristles of the broom to disturb them again.
even as i type about the coolness, the sun starts to come through the west windows. perhaps we will burn after all. who am i to predict the sun. the dauntless, the timeless, the soon to be killer. myself and my garden are still.