Today C and K and I went swimming in the lake a few miles off the property. It was deep and cold. Above us a blue basin of sunswept sky kissed our faces and around us a forest on one side, wild ironweed on the other. A baptismal float commenced, as I pondered our luck in being able to swim in a lake in Northern Georgia at four o'clock midweek. But why should life be so difficult—why should we not float on a lake in midafternoon in late summer? There are priorities that seem so silly in the presence of red and black dragonflies. It is hard to believe that summer is almost over, but I wouldn't end it any other way.
The sound of katydids taking off and landing on my window screens as I work on the computer tonight are a little jarring. Who knew such little things could make such sonic sounds? They are almost as bombastic as the squirrel that took a running leap from a popular branch onto my roof this morning. But perhaps my mind is quieter. I fear I will soon be overwhelmed by the world I left two weeks ago.
I am 25 pages into the new novel. We're still dating, but I like where we're headed.