||[Sep. 21st, 2014|06:46 pm]
The smoke is back. For a few days the weather pattern sent it somewhere else, but after a fresh morning today the smoke returned this afternoon. I don't know if it will stay around all night or not, or what the next few days will bring, but the fire is approaching 90,000 acres and is only ten percent contained, so it's likely to be with us for quite a while. The smell of burning wood makes it seem like going to a barbecue and never getting anything to eat. Rain is still predicted for next Thursday, though, and if it arrives in sufficient amounts it might make the fire much easier to control. October usually smells nice here, so I'd be pleased if it didn't get stunk up by a fire. |
Tomorrow is the last day of summer, and the last night of the current moon as well. A moonless equinox seems like a fresh start. It doesn't happen very often. I Googled to see if I could find out just how often, but all I found is that Moonless Equinox was the name of a death metal band from Quebec. Their web site hasn't been updated since 2004, so I guess they don't happen very often either.
The shopping is done, but I didn't get anything especially interesting today. Pretty soon there will be pomegranates, and the persimmons, but the closest thing to an interesting fruit on sale today was the fairly commonplace d'Anjou pear. I got a couple, but I keep wishing I'd at least picked up a donut or two, as a reward for having gone through the annoyance of shopping once again. It's still too hot to bake brownies, but maybe I can make some cinnamon toast with the stale bread that's going to go to waste.
My next appointment with the chiropractor isn't until a week from Tuesday, and it won't be a moment too soon. My left shoulder is aching, and my neck isn't feeling to good either. The good news is that tonight Masterpiece Mystery returns, so despite a sore shoulder and a lack of donuts, at least there will be English people murdering one another. That always cheers me up.
by Jane Hirshfield
It is foolish
to let a young redwood
grow next to a house.
Even in this
you will have to choose.
That great calm being,
this clutter of soup pots and books—
Already the first branch-tips brush at the window
Softly, calmly, immensity taps at your life.
I like the poem! Gerry planted a fig tree too close to our house, back in the day, and even after Gerry was gone, the tree kept trying to pull the eaves off the garage!
Goodbye to summer. Ugh.
The mulberry in my front yard is a bit too close to the house, too. Its branches scrape the roof and have to be trimmed back frequently, because it grows like a weed.