The fields wither rapidly now. Everything that isn't irrigated or drought resistant is turning brown. The place already looks like September. The only clouds in sight hover above the eastern ridges, miniaturized by distance. I sulk in the shade of the mulberry tree, weary of the sight of empty blue.
The flying insect who crawled on my glasses the other day appears to have met its demise. I found it, or one of its kind, floating in my water glass this morning. Fortunately, I looked before drinking. I still couldn't tell its species, but it seemed neither moth nor mosquito. There is a mosquito at large, though. I have an itchy bite on my forehead. It's West Nile virus for sure! When I'm dead, Sluggo will be sorry for the way he treated me!
Need more tea, and some e-mail to test the service with.
