The heat has filled our heads with thick cotton. We are like zombies. The night holds no reprieve. Bugs crawl on the computer screen, and they dive bomb the screen of the window in such numbers that it sounds like hail.

Even the too fast hummingbird has to slow down in its quest for nectar. The rose of sharon bush is in full bloom, the pink flowers cluster and beckon the little bird with the deep magenta centers. It looks dull and not much bigger than a big bumblebee when it perches, and it's surprising when it does. But only for a minute--then it's buzzing around again, and I am quiet and don't breathe so it won't swerve away. I can see its brilliant metallic green back and the bright ruby flash of the throat which earlier looked black. A male, I later read, the females don't have any red.

It's nice to see something so light, as everything feels so heavy. The garden, while exciting, is pendulous: tomatoes, still green hang down and the four plum tomato plants are like one big snarl of green; the cucumbers sprout prodigiously, grasping their iron clasped tendrils to pull themselves out further; peppers are beginning to curl out like little elf shoes. Today I tasted the very first grape tomato, and it was so real, so sweet. How a tomato should taste.

Every morning I inspect this growth, and every morning it boggles my mind. How the hell does it happen? And when? Right now, under my bug swarmed window, there are growing things, getting greener or longer or sweeter.

I am astounded by life; how can anything else be so amazing?