Yesterday began draped in mist. I stood outside in my sweater, tea in one hand, and listened to the trees in the ravine dripping. Everything else was silent. The perbs looked like a primeval forest in miniature.
A few hours later, the sun had turned everything melon-gold, and I was outside again, again with tea, though this time wearing a vest (or, as I'm supposed to call it in this country, a tank top). I alternated between reading a page of an M.R. James story ("The Rose Garden") and tipping my head back to watch the curly willow tremble with the weight of birds flicking in and out of its foliage while I thought about Hild.
When I'd finished my tea (and the story), I went back inside, turned on Freedom, and wrote nine hundred words of Hild.
Then I drank beer with Kelley, ate a most marvellous spaghetti bolognese--the perbs made it taste so rich I could hardly believe it was our old, faithful recipe--and watched another episode of Glee.
As I type this, the forecast for the day is more fog, burning off in the afternoon to reveal, well, clouds. But, hey, there might be sun (it's Seattle, anything is possible) and, besides, there's Hild. Lots of lovely Hild. I am in serious danger of dying of delight. I hope your September days are proving as fine as mine. Smiling...
