Here, we’re at the base of a sloping field yesterday, the first day of August 2023. It’s neither hot nor cold, probably in the low 70’s (F). We’re looking (roughly) north, and the sky is a purer blue than the best porcelain glaze. Some of the grasses and vetch are dying and smell musty, but the parasols of Queen Anne’s lace are vibrantly shading their small summer kingdoms. Sparrows are flushing as we walk.
About two hours later, we’re looking (roughly) east, where a stratocumulus herd is lumbering in its celestial pasture. The field pond below has become a gazing ball, which you are free to interpret as predicting good fortune.
(Images taken in Brooklin, Maine, on August 1, 2023.)