I travel quite a distant to go to my bank branch. I could go to the one in town, but then I would not get to see this:
The view from my local post office parking lot is also pretty good; Edward Hopper painted it and the postal service put it on a stamp.
All in all, the days are good.
Yes, cars still pass me to take immediate right turns, and a mad neighbor stalks the place like a Hollywood prophet, pulling out my plants and leaving them on my doorstep like a cat might with a mouse, and soon, I won’t be able to walk in town for the crowds. At Stanford, a judge practically pardons a rapist by inferring boys will be boys, defying the jury’s verdict of guilty and The Onion publishes a biting satire. The republican ridicule mobile continues, and really, all is not well in the world.
Nature, that ceaseless worker, provides us beauty, as if to say, humans, pay attention. A fine wind rustles the leaves and the air has that late afternoon chill of early June. The sun will set, the sun will rise.