By Robert Frost
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies
That, though they never equal stars in size
(And they were never really stars at heart),
Achieve at times a very starlike start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
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Friday arrived with spectacular weather, sunny and nearly 70 degrees. I had things to get done in the morning, as did Paul, but after lunch we went to the Bellevue Botanical Garden, where it had been raining when we visited with my parents so we only saw the Yao Japanese garden. Today we walked through the native region to the ravine bridge, then along the lost meadow trail to the perennials, where we saw many dressed-up prom couples taking photos with their parents. We came home for dinner; we've got lots of leftovers, including four kinds of potatoes, plus Greek, Mexican, and deli.
Then we watched Doctor Who with Cheryl, which again I did not love; Ruby is likeable enough, but there are significant plot holes, and yet again I want to know when this Doctor will become more than a minor character with a conglomeration of traits recognizable from his predecessors. We saw the end of the Orioles and Mariners games, both of which ended better than they began, and now we're rewatching Mad Max: Fury Road, trying to decide whether we really want to see this level of violence on the big screen in Furiosa no matter how good the cast is, and I will miss Charlize.
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