Sitting here in my shed. Through the big window that doesn’t open, I can see some of the sky’s mannerisms. How it acts around birds and chimneys. I like it when the smoke rises; I like it when the birds fly; I am feeling a little stupid and grumpy today. It helps somewhat, for a sense of patience, to look at the little green starts we planted yesterday. And to be back to translating Proust. Maybe in 50 days we will be eating sweet peas.
A jolly French farmer sold us the starts. He used the word “peculiar” in a moving way.