Afternoon light

The sky was cloudless and blue all day long, and the light shimmered off placid harbour water. I spent the day in the sun-filled garden, mostly weeding. I dug up a row of chewed-up wretched chard and put the leek seedlings there instead. It's much better now. I wonder if I am already so used to the garden that I'm forgetting how miraculous it is. Those beets, for instance -- they were seeds. And now beneath the soil they are real live beets, glowing red.

A robin has built a lovely nest in the grape arbour. Her choice of nesting spots itself was brilliant. What's not to love about being nestled among the grape leaves? But she seems to think that every time I go in or out of the garden I am a threat to her. So then she must make a ruckus and fly off, and perch along the top of the fence and glare at me. This is a good example of over-reacting. I am sorry for her, but I hope she figures out that she can sit on her nest in peace and safety and I can work in the garden at the same time.

But I digress. I meant to write about the afternoon light that's dancing along the living room floor. It is after seven o'clock here and the sun is still glorious. I am sitting at the wooden table where I write to you, at my laptop, looking out through the front door at the apple tree and the sun and the water. I hope that peace and safety surround you, and that this moment is touched with light.