It’s a fine day, high blue skies and the clouds of the week’s rain starting to clear away. The weather turned unexpectedly warm two nights ago; I stepped out into the night, into an unexpected fog, and I could smell the ocean, hundreds of miles away.
The ground is still soft, and the grass has grown too tall for our new reel mower to be practical now—and the acreage was always a little too plentiful. But I love the quiet whick of it, the sweat of honest labor, the not-unpleasant tightness in the biceps and the calves in its aftermath; I love being able to mow the lawn without coming away ears ringing and lungs full of petrochemical smoke.
The pear tree is covered in soggy white petals, the hops have overrun their trellis, and the raspberry canes are budding. The espaliered dwarf apple trees along the property line are coming out in blossom—tiny pinkwhite nubbins coiled like springs ready to explode. Even the hazel nutbushes, which poked inertly from the ground through the fall and winter, sticks pretending to be a hedge, are starting to show some signs of life. Birds everywhere; dogs barking.
Fuck the Rapture. Sometimes this world is paradise enough.
Have a lovely weekend. Damned or not, I’ll see you Monday.
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