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Pungent tang of grasscut is reaching through the window as  I type.  Monica is out with the mower putting on eau de petrol.

Summer's flown and in that spirit I fly over the highlights of the last weeks.  Chris and Hanno come to visit, bringing the boys back, from 3 weeks being spoiled down in Pennsylvania and Maryland.  We convince

them to spend the week on our beaches and trails rather than drive off into the heart of New England.  

So there is good food and good beer and visiting into the night and in the morning garden.

The woods are full of mushrooms and I want to forage.

For a week, the boys spend their days at camp.  The parents spend their days at work.  The CSA is as merciless with its tomatoes as it was with the kale and chard.

A guinea pig, Chino, has gone missing -- taking its rightful place in the food chain.  Porter catches a pair of great bluefish out in Long Island sound, which we devour with garlic and cold drinks.

The geen saturn is wrecked by an absent-minded, SUV upon an S-curve, and no one is hurt.  

The cuckoos fledge some young, but one of the parents is murdered by a car -- and languishes now in the freezer to be stuffed for display at the nature center. Juvenile hummingbirds fight over the nectar in the feeder.

And the nights grow colder -- nearing the 40's as though it weren't still August . . . .