By Percy Bysshe Shelley
Flourishing vine, whose kindling clusters glow
Beneath the autumnal sun, none taste of thee;
For thou dost shroud a ruin, and below
The rotting bones of dead antiquity.
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I have nothing exciting to report from my Tuesday apart from more gorgeous weather, and now I am watching Colbert treat the Republican presidential race as The Hunger Games, so I will keep this brief. I got some work done and cleaned some junk up and got to share lunch with my cats, who wanted to lick my cheese.
The bunnies are definitely keeping different fall hours -- we only saw a couple -- but the leaky pipe flooding our neighborhood on Monday has been fixed. After dinner we watched Avengers: Age of Ultron now that it's On Demand because I needed my Science Bros fix and women kicking ass. Some photos from Rocklands Farm on Sunday:
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