This morning it's incredibly quiet and still. I spent the better part of it pruning—-I am amazed at how wild everthing has become. The rose of sharon bush is getting crud from it’s next door neighbor the choke cherry tree, so I trimmed both back. The bees hovered nervously as I cut back their meal ticket, the blooms of the rose of Sharon. Below, the bee balm has creeped in to the foot path and as I trimmed it back, I found it had taken over a foot. We ended up sawing down a sizable offshoot of the choke cherry, as well. Here we upset the catbirds who swallow down the dark purple choke cherries greedily, hopping from branch to branch to pick the choicest ones. I tried to attack the garden and restore some order to the tomato plants, but it’s pointless. It’s my fault I planted them so close together in the first place. After picking a few tomatoes—I hear they are slow to ripen this season—I inspected the cucumbers. They are prolific. I have to start making pickles.

There is no breeze but it’s not hot due to the thick cover of patchy clouds in the sky. I walked down to the dock to cut back all the growth down there. I brought my binoculars and was rewarded: a great egret fishing. I’ve seen it twice before already, stone still and beautifully, strikingly white, the only match being the water lilies that dot the pond.

I chopped back as much as I could and rewarded myself with a seat on the bench. The view is now obstructed by the purple loosestrife, tall and willowy, a bright shock of tiny purple flowers lining the top two feet so that when there are fields of it it’s a waving wash of purple. I wanted to put boots on and to wade out and chop them all back, but I was stopped by the constant buzz of what I soon realized to be hundreds of bees buzzing in the flowers, and I decided to stop chopping and leave to bees to their business.

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?

After a week of soupy humidity and torrential rains, the atmosphere lifted and clear cool wind started pouring in. Yesterday was incredibly clear and it was like you were on acid, like you couldn’t believe everything was so special, so green, so clearly defined as being alive. It lifted everything, everyone’s spirits felt so light, so free from water, from the closeness and density of millions of microscopic water droplets crowding your skin, your thoughts.

This is the thick of summer: the tomato plants are like a science project gone awry, they climb everywhere, and tomatoes hang pendulously, but still green, with the promise of food to come. A huge bell pepper hangs, and you can’t help but to be afraid for it’s well being, hoping a chipmunk won’t take a bite and ruin the few weeks of waiting. Hurricanes come in without a moment's notice, whip things into a frenzy, and leave just as suddenly.

I walked down to the pond and sat on the bench, the breeze cool and noticed the water level was up. It poured this week. I was scanning the edges of the water and saw an egret, which I’ve never seen here, so I ran back inside to grab the binoculars. It was beautiful to watch, all white, pristine incredible white, with dull yellow legs and a black beak. Around it a few female mallards circled and seemed to want to harass it. It jumped up off its perch and landed on a dead tree that has fallen and hangs over and in the water. I noticed now that a few green herons were also perched close by, and then the mallards came into view right behind the egret and I noticed how small it was, how delicate and streamlined, compared to the plump ducks. The purple loosestrife kept blowing into my view, and as I tried to keep my eye on the egret, it turned into a beautiful painting, the purple, the striking white, and the lush green backdrop. You start to take green for granted these days.

In a minute it all changed, as the mallards nudged the egret into flight. I watched as it flew higher and farther, getting smaller in the distance, until it seemed an updraft had caught a piece of paper, which had fluttered away and disappeared.