It must have rained over night here deep in Burbville. Everything has that just wet look to it that the sun is quickly drying. It’s country quiet. All you can hear is the breeze rustling the leaves of the Maple next door, the musical chirping of the cicadas, and a bird peep or two. Add in the occasional rumble of a truck just so you know — morning in the suburbs.

The writing cave sits over the office. Opening the blinds this morning, I disturbed a wee robin perched on the roof breaking her fast on a fat worm. She sidled to the rain gutter. Still too close. She flew away. Breakfast interruptus.

We’re only three days away from the summer solstice and the official opening day of strawberry picking at the local farm market. We’re running a little behind. It hasn’t been berry-ripening weather. Lots of rain and cloud cover. It’s stalling the new fence staining. I’m okay with that.

Tuesday, Tuesday. So good to me…

What’s good for Monday, is good for Tuesday.

Elen, writing from the back patio.