That I’m writing this at all in the evening counts as near miraculous. If I’d written on Saturday as id planned and hoped but not dreamed it would have been fully miraculous. So save your Papal emails for later.
The cherry evening shaded into a frog croaking night like the day had been a honey of a sun. Garna sat cross-legged in a rocking chair on her veranda. The rocker blades ended in ferny curls: both segmented and green. Her feet hadn’t touched the voluptuously over-sized Cypress planking for an hour or more. A full jar of home-brewed stout sweated next to two empties. Jimlly would need to get here soon or the fourth jar would turn Garna’s enthusiastic welcome home into something that would require a hose were they dogs.