In the scheme of things, mushrooms and pears are so commonplace. They grow, they’re shaken down or pulled out, they’re eaten.
It's Sunday. There are such small vicissitudes to this day! I clean (today, in an unusual move, we clean). I work, write, work, write. We pick mushrooms.
Storms come, storms pass.
Ed and I chop and pull at weeds.
The farmette is still lush...
...the cranes still parade at the end of the day as if there is no end to anything at all, just one moment followed by the next and the next...
I cook, Ed cuddles Isis, my daughter comes over for a Sunday meal.
A week-end day like all others or like no others, depending on how you look at it.