I can hear the church bells ringing the quarter hour. The cricket and frog cd is on, and Tim is curled on the couch underneath Mimi, and between them the blue wool. We are in the little side room we use for thinking and being in quiet. She purrs scratchily against a background of trembling wind, which is whipping all tendrils of heat from the windows. It is chilly. The pines sway. I am reading: "At sunrise I could usually be found writing at one of the two library desks. A diffuse light filtered through alabaster windows, and beside me there was a pot of hot black tea flavored with Yemeni honey."*
Looking through my journal I find an entry from 2 weeks ago today:
awoke at Hostel Marin near Sausolito ~ an empty land full of green and mist, eucalyptus and owl's hooting. In bed at 8pm last eve ~ rolled tent, drank sweet orange tea, listened to frogs peeping, drove to Muir woods.
saw deer, kestral pair at hostel, turkeys displaying.
Muir Woods ~ redwoods, looked for banana slugs but saw none. moist trails ~ all reds and greens. moss.
ate small goudas & yellow apple.
*Motoring with Mohammed, Eric Hansen
(edited to add: and the mailman just came: these arrived. Oh. My. Lands.)