The weather is volatile. Thanks to the tail end of Bertha, there has been lashing rain, pinging hail, and skittish gusts of wind. Dark vampire skies clear to strangely inappropriate sunshine. Minutes later the gloom returns. The whole business has churned up the sulky August torpor, and it's made me feel restless. Can't settle or focus. Unconstructive. As I type, I'm being distracted by the pigeon tree. Out of the corner of my eye I can see it waving in wild and extravagant swirls. For once, there are no pigeons. Maybe they are preserving their dignity, as the tree is more bucking bronco than restful stoop.
A large moth is outside, bumbling at the window, desperately trying to get in. What is a moth doing in daylight? And why is it trying to get in? The natural order is disrupted.
I am picking things up and putting them down and flailing about. Unlike the moth, I need to get out.
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