I laid in the grass on the edge of the canal and read all of Home by Marilynne Robinson this afternoon. The water smelled green, like honey and musk warmed by the sun. I heard a bird that sounded like the loons landing gracefully with their sleek wings on the surface of Leech Lake. A ways down from me, a group of lanky boys - on the cusp of adolescence - hollered with loose laughter and jumped into the glinting water. Their unabashed enthusiasm made me want to cry. A couple lay sleeping side by side underneath the slips of gold from the leaves, her hand rested on his slumbering form.

I walked back to my apartment and scrubbed dark velvet beets from the farmer's market until the dirt came away in my hands. They're roasting in the oven now, and I'm lying on the couch, a little burned and weary, but with the good kind of exhaustion that comes from a long day in the sun doing not much of anything at all.

"There's so much to be grateful for, words are poor things."

***

words from yesterday, photos from last weekend on the ferry to whidbey.