…somebody’s watching me.
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More of my love letters to bees:
All my photos look the same
Petal nests
Fruitless Fall
Oh, for a bee’s experience
Fairy dust
The view from our window on the runway in Atlanta, where we sat for over two hours. And consequently missed our connection in Phoenix. Sorry, Mom & Dad & kids. I’m writing from the hotel where we spent the night. We’re on our way back to the airport to catch an early flight home.
(Incidental note. Unable to concentrate for longer spans, yesterday all I could read were the beginnings of things—first chapters I’d downloaded to my Kindle. The new Rob Lowe autobiography; Tina Fey’s Bossypants, which had both Scott and me in giggles; A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan; Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses; and Melissa Coleman’s This Life Is in Your Hands: One Dream, Sixty Acres, and a Family Undone.)
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Our seventeenth wedding anniversary was mellow and nice. The piano recital was lovely; the girls did quite well. It was held out in Jamul, where the yellow-brown hills lift themselves up to the sky. I love it out there, all sere and windblown and smelling of sage, where the land seems to ripple like waves. Scott would like a house up on top of one of those hills, with that enormous view that takes the breath out of you. I’d rather one at the foot of the hill, where the mountain rises up above you, and you can look out your kitchen window while you wash dishes and watch the cloudshadows swim over the slopes.
I forgot to take my camera. But the tomatoes are what’s happening here at home.
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A Lily of the Nile blossom about to unfurl. I think I might like this whimsical bud stage better than the flower in all its glory.
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