perfect

I spent a few hours writing in the backyard, by the fountain. The grapes are ready on the grapevine. It is silent outside, except for the occasional boom from the northwest. (Someone blowing something up, no doubt--it doesn't pay to inquire in this town.) But there is nothing finer than watching the still garden while a dozen monarch butterflies trade places on the beesbalm, and the birds don't notice you until they're close enough you can read their expression as they sheer away. There is a thunderstorm blowing in from the west, but the sky above me is blue and dappled with thin currents of cloud.

And all this is much more distracting than the kitchen table, so back I go. I really have to finish Chapter Fifteen.