Monday, August 29, 2005
The soft edge of summer is just over there past the thistle, the wiffle ball bat and the woman walking her dog .... there's always a woman walking a dog isn't there ... at least that's what I read somewhere recently. When the dog is quiet I can hear the edge moving, each creaking sun-bleached inch by sun-bleached inch. I can see it moving as well in the careless but urgent drift of the curtains back and forth across the windows overlooking the beach. Once the edge reaches here I'll get back to cataloging books with a great deal more enthusiasm. Until then I hope you can find something to enjoy in my recently updated current listings .