Mornings would be my go to answer for a favorite time of day, because of coffee, the light, the quiet. Morning is when you discover if had snowed the night before.

But when I wander in the garden on a summer night that still has light, when I offhandedly tend to the flowers, stooping behind the rose bush to pick away the leaves with black spot, breathing the cool air, then I get enchanted. I get struck by the quality of the time, the beauty of the light.

I am waiting for a melon to ripen in the vegetable plot. I think tomorrow might be the day. It should drop off its stem when it ready. I am tempted to take the scissors to it, but I will resist. Have provided a bed, and am willing the beetles to keep away. Two more are growing, but at a slow, slow pace.

What happens to the garden at night?

As it turned out, I did not resist. I cut the melon and took it home, and rose a sea of doubt. It is supposed to rain hard, but all I see are blue skies behind the clouds, and some sun.

There is a chance the melon will taste of cucumber, because a cucumber plant grew near it. So much chance and probability in this world. And there is the law of averages, which I imagine is the general weight of history and predictability. When did I stop writing fiction? Months or years? What was the day, and why was that that significant?