Two days of sun lapse back into chill and rain. We make lasagna and tea, consider baking bread. Outside, a chickadee slides off the top of the birdfeeder; her space taken by a sparrow; hers by a grackle; hers by the cardinal family, all swoop and flash. In this cloudy light they look orange more than red, and we have learned to tell the youngsters from their mother by the color of their beaks. From the kitchen I can recognize their chirping, and we stand at the mudroom window to watch. Last night they came flying about us as we ate our dinner in the garden.

Every day now we are making plans, changing them, tearing them down and building anew. Last night on our walk we talked about why we so much like it here, had few reasons we could speak out loud, except that it feels right to be here. It feels good to be here.

Cucumbers turning into cucumbers; cucumbers turning into pickles! A tomato almost the size of my fist, and growing. Cilantro bolted. Finches at the birdfeeder. Nasturtiums going to seed, potato flowers falling, blueberries falling off the bush.