It's wet again, after the dry May. The Corepsis tinctoria is blooming in the orchard, the most successful of the wild flowers, so far. Fireflies have been abundant, visible out the windows even from well lit rooms.
I did pack a little more yesterday. But mainly i think i moped a good deal. I finished reading Dan Simmons' Hyperion. While clearly well done, the narratives -- it's the stories told by six pilgrims al la Canterbury Tales -- depressed me. A disappointed poet's life, a Heart of Darkness religious horror, some surreal interplay of war and sex with the grotesque imagery of Gerald Scarfe's work for The Wall, cyberpunk noir, planned revenge against the colonizers.... That was no help. The gloomy weather and oppressive humidity offered no escape outside. Christine and i are not looking forward to the long separation. I worry about my folks, about my yard. I trust that Christine's capacity for dealing with the elephants will be sufficient while i am gone, but memories of traveling when the elephants had the upper hand poke at my heart.
All will be well.