Yesterday's rain on late-opening lilies, whose stems are weaker than their blooms, so that they bow over from the waist, and hang under the weight of water.
Below, three tiny, ripe tomatoes for dinner last night.
And a wailing commotion on the street below. Six firetrucks, soon departing, after a resolved alarm at the hospital.
Every night we eat basil. Hyssop and calamintha make it into drinks. Parsley is chopped, sage roasted.
The second flush of Abraham Darby is late.
And the cosmos grow taller in their pots.
It is a cool Friday night on the terrace, with a hot and humid Saturday forecast. We will sleep with doors open and mosquito net tucked in. Last night they flew in and hummed.