La luna es muerta

Not much to report today - just a bath for my horn, harder food for me, a little bit of singing, and some writing.

An observation, though: I was sitting in my house, looking at outside as the heat slowly tortured my grass, leaving it destitute and possibly dead. I felt removed from the scene; I could watch but not touch (for those who remember my Rochester Winters, think about how I act in the summer). Perhaps the landscape created a mythical atmosphere as I sat in the prison of my house.

Until the evening; with the cooling air, I made the trip into the yard, so I could enjoy a natural breeze and look at the flowers in the garden. The mythic fog, evaporated by the procession into and of the cool, helped regain my sense of place. I was freed, although I didn't venture far, as the night guard, looming over the horizon, came to replace the heat. I returned inside.

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