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The heat had broken Wednesday night, so I opened the windows for the roller coaster drive down Williston Point Road. The road rises and falls in its winding descent to the highway that leads home. Trees overhang most of the road, shading and cooling it from top to bottom. The temperature of the passing breeze rises and falls with the slight changes in the road's altitudes and with the greater changes in the depth of the shade -- warm in the sky-lit rises, cooler in the darkly shaded dips, but especially cool near the creeks, even the dry ones, as if air could remember water.

The wheat is in, tassels like spiked dreadlocks crown the corn, the soy beans are up, and bales of newly-mown hay loaf in the fields. The fragrance of fresh hay, alfalfa at its best -- there's little that's better. Bread maybe. Infants.

Every date in the last five has had its moment at the head of this page while I have struggled to spit out an entry. This one isn't finished, but it doesn't have to be either, so I'm abandoning it.

A trip to the public library last night produced Atwood's Alias Grace, Durrell's Provence, and most intriguing of all, Friedrich D�rrenmatt's The Assignment: or, On the Observing of the Observer of the Observers. Is there beer enough and time? It feels a little like Kundera's Identity.

Mighty Aphrodite appears in the living room tonight. The video, not the goddess.