Some umbrage and a confession I think are due.  I wasn’t fair about the work done today, the hauling out to the street of all the tree work, etc.  I was in a hurry; not with the work itself, but with the telling of it.  I wanted to get something out.  In actuality, there really isn’t enough space and time to talk about the particulars, and that is the gist of this, what really was involved.  Much of what we carried out, as I’ve said, had been piled up in various places for about three months.  Consequently, each individual pile was in its own state of decay.  Some of the palm fronds were almost compost, it smelled of deep, nurturing earth, but so Florida; the bay tree limbs and leaves, when I turned them over to lift and carry, exploded with a singular, herbal scent; some of the tree limbs from the back crumbled in my hands.  I don’t know why I didn’t say so.  It is important.  Still learning, I guess.  On the beach side, the tangle of that invasive non-native we had cut were still springy, difficult, and resilient, even dead; a bow should be offered to that.  Gassho; Blessings upon us.

* * *

The squash was droopy this afternoon; very low humidity and no rain; so I watered again, just what appeared to need it.  West wind high and strong in the trees, nothing low; light fractured and dispersed in the leaves, the undersides; an old nest of last year’s birds; a Cicada husk on the wall by the back door.  Everything different; everything the same.

* * *