I'm going to blame Sierra Nevada Brewery for the premature arrival of the season. Today there was Summerfest lager on the store shelves. No wonder summer came so soon— it had to greet its tasty specialty beer. Of course I bought a six pack. A couple of weeks ago we had winter in April, and now we have summer in April. Who needs to travel when different climes visit one's home so frequently?
This summer will be brief, though. Spring ought to return within a few days, which means I ought to enjoy the first summer beer before it becomes temporarily inappropriate. That means before Wednesday, when there could be rain again. I hope there will be rain, as I chose not to irrigate anything today, and will probably let it go tomorrow as well. There are already enough mosquitoes flying about, without irrigation leaving puddles for them to breed in.
I'm quite sure the insects were celebrating Earth Day. I've never seen so many appear so suddenly as I did this afternoon. The birds must be feasting. I'm just scratching where I got bitten.
Ballad Of The Moon, Moon
by Federico García Lorca
The moon came to the forge with her bustle of spikenards. The child looks, looks. The child is looking. In the trembling air the moon moves her arms showing breasts hard as tin, erotic and pure. Fly, moon, moon, moon, for if the gypsies come they'll make rings and white necklaces out of your heart Child, let me dance! When the gypsies come they'll find you on the anvil with your little eyes closed. Fly, moon, moon, moon because I hear their horses. Child leave me alone, and don't touch my starchy whiteness. The horseman draws near beating the drum of the plain. Within the forge the child has its eyes closed. Through the olive groves come gypsies bronzed and dreamy, their heads held high and their eyes half-closed. How the owl hoots! How it hoots in the treetops! Through the sky a moon goes with a child by the hand. Within the forge gypsies weep, crying loudly. The air veils her, veils her. The air is veiling her.