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Usually I'm all ready for the season to shift, for summer to slide into fall and have those few weeks of crisp air and foliage that's almost too perfect. But this year...no. Something resists. I want a few more weeks of summer please. I want to ride out the last few weeks of the lantana and new guinea impatiens being perfect.

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Working on poems this morning, playing with a cento and a piece that I muddled through a Markov generator.

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This friend of the family gave my mother a bushel of tiny white peaches--each one the size of a ping pong ball. They're fantastic: meaty and not too juicy. I'm being drafted to help make preserves later today.