I’ve always been a sucker for things falling from the sky. I don’t mean planes or rain or meteorites; I mean light, delicate things: snow, blossoms, mist, and leaves. I bought the DVD for the awful Tom Cruise flick Legend simply because it has gorgeous scenes of meadows filled with floaty things. (Seriously.)
This evening I am sitting on the back porch, reclined in what has become my Writing Chair. Toto is sitting on the arm, watching me type. (She is my constant companion lately.) The sun is sinking low in the horizon behind me, and the quality of the light has turned golden. The locust, which towers just over there, just across the lawn, is bathed in the soft, warm light. A gentle breeze blows, stirring the locust leaves, causing the boughs to bob. As they bob, they shed small, yellow leaves, leaves which drift upon the breeze, forming a tumbling rain like canary feathers, floating across to me, landing on my lap.
It is like magic.
Toto moves to the other chair — her seat — and we listen to the sounds of the neighborhood. Curt and Tammy are working on their roof next door. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk (or puh-fut, puh-fut): Curt staples down shingles. Dogs bark in the yard behind us, but only aimlessly — barking for the sake of barking. A car surges past on Arista Avenue. Harvey and his family were out earlier, but they’re not now, although I think it’s their grill I smell. They’re cooking something savory and sweet. It smells like burning honey.
Somewhere, in the distance, I can hear the ice cream truck again. From here its tunes sound mournful.
I noticed berry prices at the Farmers Market last Sunday. Nearly everything’s $3/pint. (Or is it a quart? I don’t know.) That’s amazing! We’ve been in berries for two months now, and they’re thicker than ever.
“We must have eaten a hundred dollars in berries this year,” I told Kris.
“Easily,” she said.
Our peas are still on, too, but I think we’ve given up on those. We’ve never had peas so prolific. But two months of peas is enough for any man. Kris ate her first tomato today: a Bloody Butcher. She slurped it down, raving the whole time. She also picked some cucumbers, but she says she needs a few more before she can pickle them. She brought in a zucchini, too, and threatened to make some sort of muffin with it.
This is the best garden we’ve ever had.
(If only we had grapes, but there are none on the vine.)