Looking for changes, Soleil peers through blinds at eye level. Closer to a home than beside the television, the burgeoning blueberry bush waits on the deck given its fill of water. Without moving, the pond, now a stream, blossoms green. Chances of rain a gamble, percentages change hour to hour. Caution advised when doing strenuous outside activities, chance of dehydration, heat stroke. My son going to dismantle a barn carries a pack filled with water.

     Sounded like more than two voices this morning. The Cedar Waxwing and Red-eyed Vireo were quite vocal. Open areas of the house cool nicely the rest not at all. Zsolt laid in front of the fan I stood in his doorway. 

     The Red-eyed Vireo leads the morning discussion with a Gray Catbird, Winter Wren and a Swainson’s Thrush seldom heard. They use

Saturday, August 9, 2025, 50.5*, 78% RH,0616

     One startled me as I looked over the railing. Where have they been before now, the granddaddy long legs spiders exploring the siding, the deck? Dew provides water to bloom but not to quench, not to fill the stream. Two jousting raise a cloud of dust that drifts though there doesn’t seem to be a breeze. I did learn about how one object acts on another and about propulsion. Easier to watch, to dream. Many days I’ve watched their clouds move across the driveway rising into trees at which point I lose sight of them. I remember sitting on the deck mornings with coffee last year, after I had walked the three separately, fed them, put them back in their crates in my son's garage until lunch time when I’d repeat the ritual. I wanted to be here. I wanted to find order in the jumble of boxes and broken relics of the move. I wanted to listen, hearing aids among the missing. Chris told me there was noise. I enjoyed the bliss.

     Walking like an early robot, you know from the 50s, legs stiff I give the three a biscuit take the coffee, head for my desk. Remember the grocery order arriving between 9 and 11. Set down the orange cup, walk down the ramp to position the cart on the driver’s side of the gate. I look for spider strings as I lock the dump base into place. Spider strings thick inside the handle. Unlike a robot, I pant walking up the ramp, air poor this morning.

     She said, “If, is the biggest little word in the English language. It isn’t good for anything.” It didn’t keep me from dreaming. I would just phrase things without “if.” In math I heard the word used in formulas. Years, later I discovered “if” while studying psychology. If-Then Flowcharts instruct the course to take depending on what is happening. The greatest impact of that “little word that doesn’t do anything” came early when I read Rudyard Kipling’s “If” and decided it was a description of Butch, my one-year older than me brother.

     Beautiful in a painting, Soleil veils herself in orange, orange derived from fire. Four years ago in Pennsylvania, the first time I’d seen her so arrayed; the air wore too much perfume. A scent remembered from down drafts, cast iron stoves burning wood that kept us warm other days, other places in Maine. I wore a mask, mowed the field, watched the sky cover itself in pink. We are taught that what burns makes way for new stronger growth. We are taught that ash feeds the land.

    Moving fingers link to link, I keep one hand on the fence making way across the three-foot strip around the corner to blueberry bushes. I wonder how rational is a second gate opening into another falling into boulders space. In the distance two converse: Red-eyed Vireo, Hermit Thrush. Dew sits on the car. Soleil glitters bronze through leaves. Leaves of orange, leaves of red, leaves of purple spatter the canopy like an artist previewing fall, brush in hand to paint all green if dissatisfied.

     ‘Just checking my pocket to make sure no pills fell out of the custard cup. Coffee in a cup, water in a glass, not good things to put in a pocket. Soleil has passed the uppermost part of my window so is not shining into my eyes.

     Steamy windows, an illusion mastered by dew. I don’t hear any birds only Ruger walking across the deck to look toward the pond. Satisfied with his surroundings, he walks down the ramp. I turn on the recorder, leave the door open as I fetch the other two. Zayne waits at the end of the hall needing some mommying. Waits for me to step outside. Did something scare him last night? As he walks about the fenced-in-land he looks frequently to see if I am there.

     Bonum Mane. Augustus coepit. More Latin! Why not! Let’s play! Good morning. August has begun.