Late strawberries — almost ripe — the squirrels get them before we do.
A cloudy morning, no dew: raked and mowed the front and back grassy areas. Birch leaves. Fir cones. Pine needles. Mushrooms.
Took a walk through the neighborhood, reversing the direction of this morning’s run. This time, down the hill. Saw a man swabbing some kind of sealant on the sidewalk and driveway he had replaced two or three months ago. The nasty smell reached us well before we discovered the source. And the rainwater drains to a stream where fish, frogs, and other creatures live. This is what we humans do.
Picked one of the second-crop bunches of grapes on our vine. The robins have found one of the others, but four or five remain — for now.
The three coleus cuttings I made after the rain are blooming and growing roots. Being fall, and coming from such a mature plant, I hadn’t expected it. If they keep on this way, I may have to pot them. They want to live. How can I refuse?
Read the twenty-third and twenty-fourth chapters of Middlemarch.
September 18, 2023.
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[ 1871 ]
Categories: If It Had A Name
Tags: Birches, Clouds, Coleus, Cones, Dew, Environment, Fall, Firs, Fish, Frogs, George Eliot, Grapes, Grass, Journals, Middlemarch, Mushrooms, Rain, Reading, Robins, Running, Squirrels, Strawberries, Walking
William Michaelian 