Last light catches rain.
Perhaps when I get old (er), I said to Lisa, I’ll keep the camera nestled in my lap while sitting on the porch and take pictures of clouds.
Lisa said, sure, reassuring like I’d just slipped off.
Lettuce, self seeded, beside the compost.
The garden is still behind but showing promise. The beans came up like gangbusters. Not like other years. The cabbage is doing the best out of what was planted. The weeds are kicking ass, until tomorrow. That’s when I’m heading out there like a pimp with my angry hoe.
A few early black cherry tomatoes.
Just words. My friend, said, he wanted a shirt that said, free speech is more important than your feelings. I agree. The problem is, if you want the shirt, you have to be on the internet and buy it from the white supremacists.
A pterodactyl or blue heron, one or the other, flies into the storm.
Fathers Day. I was lucky. Phone calls and even a few Instagram tributes. It was pretty nice. Better than being like most of the dads on Instagram . . . already dead.
Tomorrow, I’m heading out there like I said. That’s the trick, and probably what makes a good father.
Very fine day.