The eve of a new week.

This morning, for the second morning in a row, I slept until 10:30. When I fell asleep last night (over the computer, as I was trying to write yesterday's post), I had decided to let myself sleep as long as I needed to; last week's sinus pains and drains have turned into this weekend's cough, and I'm already over the idea of being sick in June. And so I slept, and slept, and slept, until Hem came on the iPod at 10:30 and carried me back into the world.

Tonight, I'm going to bed in a more deliberate and settled way, with a head full of the things that will happen this week: a draft to be finished; a conference paper to be started; a revision to be mulled just a little more. A yoga class to start. A Pilates class to start. Dinners to be had. Practicing to be done. I feel as though I've barely been here for an age. I feel ready for that no longer to be the case.

I walked out at dusk (though today's picture is of yesterday's sunset), out toward where the tree was flowering in February, out toward where the snails climbed weed husks in October, out toward where I visited the thornbush at sunset in January and where I walked beside the galloping cows in September. In the fields I've photographed, the grasses and weeds are now chest-high. They are green in its every texture.