August
By Mary B.C. Slade
I come! I come! and the waving field
Its wealth of golden grain shall yield.
In the hush and heat of glowing noon,
The insects’ hum is the only tune;
For the merriest birds forget to sing,
And sit in the shade with drooping wing.
But see! how the purpling grapes hang high,
And ripen beneath my sunny sky!
And see! how the fruits of the bending tree
Turn blushing and rosy cheeks to me!
And soon shall your garners be over-full
With gifts from the August bountiful.
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Monday was another gorgeous, not too warm summer day. I had a pile of work to get done, only half of which I actually finished, but I did make a dent in the laundry, shifting photos from my phone to my computer, and getting some correspondence taken care of. I also may have found an ophthalmologist (next, dermatologist). Also, we walked to the beach.
After the Mariners game, we watched a couple of episodes of the returned and missed Futurama -- which manages both nostalgia and smart commentary on its own cancellations and evolutions -- and this week's Miracle Workers, which has felt a little over the top this season but I still enjoy it. Some fannish and fun creations at the Bellevue Arts Fair:
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