We have planned absolutely nothing as the holiday creeps up (I might read over the Constitution to see how it feels this July 4th, as all kinds of people invoke it without seeming to know what it says).

A doctor friend is coming to the farm on Sunday with her daughter, who wishes to become an artist and wants to meet Maria. A good choice of inspiration, I think.

(People used to come and ask about being a writer, but I don’t think many people want to do that anymore. They want to be Influencers on Tik Tok. It’s an exciting world.)

This weekend, we’ll seep late,   mess with our gardens, do some shopping, blog, take pictures,  go to the Farmer’s Market, read a lot, and get some Scape Goatt Pesto pizza from the Shift cart (Garlic Scape, Wood Fired Pizza, Tomato, Goat Cheese, everything fresh from local farms). And I’ve got a lot of manure spreading to do. Those flowers will jump right out of the beds.

Donkey manure (above) is toxic for my raised beds.

I asked Maria if I could have some, and she showed up with a wheelbarrow full of two-year-old waste, which is dry and easily absorbed by my garden soil. And it works on flowers and their color.

I’ve got two really fine books to read over the holiday weekend: I Am Homeless If This Is Not My Home, by Lorrie Moore (her first new book in 14 years), a brilliant author, and Symphony Of Secrets by Brendan Slocumb, a mesmerizing and very original music mystery about honesty, musical genius, greed, and history.

Moore is as good with words as anyone I can think of, and Slocumb has found a fascinating and gripping way to expand our ideas about the intelligent mystery. I sometimes think that only P.D. James could do that. I’ll read them both, going back from one to the other. Moore is a worthy legend; it is a joy to read anything she writes.

It’s a lovely morning, disturbed only by more smoke from the Canadian wildfires. I am feeling strong and engaged, and fortunate.  And much in love. I very much love going out every morning to take pictures. Here are some; they are all getting some donkey manure for their roots.

My flowers are bouncing back from this week’s storms. I’m dead-heading, adding manure, making space, and cleaning the woods. This flower stuff is hard work.

I think of these as butterly flowers; they are so gracious and delicate.

Soul of a flower.

The hens, forever Imperious, love to get in my pictures if they can. They probably think it’s all about them.