1. Hummingbirds have discovered my hummingbird feeder, and also the red trumpet vine climbing up the pillar on my back porch.  They hover and hum and buzz off like bullets.

2. Katie Gray is a my great good friend, and her visit reminded me.  It’s hard to find a friend, but you keep hoping and looking because when it comes to you, it comes like the first days of spring, or the first days of fall.  We’ve only been friends for a few years, but already we have grown beyond the women we were, and are now the women we are, together.  I’m rich beyond words.

3. The garden is dying back, and I’ve killed Marshall’s rosemary, the one I was babysitting.  Eff.  But this means that the back yard is in transition, and it’s kind of exciting to think about what its life will be through the fall and winter … return of the fire-pit?

4. Jordan said we couldn’t talk about a wedding until we were engaged, but I don’t know!  I want to talk about things like, where it would be, if it were to happen!  And who exactly would be involved!  And what kind of wine exactly we should get!

5. The little white bird chimes that Katie J. brought me from Colombia are so lovely in the breeze.  Chinkling and tinging and falling in so perfectly with all the other small & thrilled sounds that are settling on the day.

6. I’m playing tennis, now, and riding bikes, and making a quilt.  And fighting powerful urges to tell everyone about how awesome I am at these things.  (Succumbed!)

7. Seven is the mystical number.  I’m meeting the changes of the season with a lot of excitement, and a little anxiety.  My older sister is getting married, a younger sister is starting college, and another younger sister is considering moving to California for a while.  In an effort to get reins on the changes, I’ve written lists, hoping each bulleted entry will tie it to a more solid ground.  I make goals, I check off goals, I journal and write poems and run through the days with each unremembered and unrecorded possibility flowing behind me like smoke.  After a long spring and summer of false starts and aborted attempts, it feels like a bridge is unrolling before me.

8. And eight is divisible by four, which is the number of days Marshall and I will be camping out in Winfield, listening to bluegrass and Irish folk and flatpicker-virtuosos, in a few days.  We got a blow-up sleeping pad for me yesterday, and with that dazzlingly luxuriant possession we are launching ourselves into the heart of camping weather, into the Smokies and the Blue Ridge Mountains and a cramped campsite in the center of the Walnut Valley Festival land-rush.

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