The solstice sun is setting unspectacularly behind the trees on top of Jones Mountain at 4:30 p.m. Meanwhile yesterday's tightly-furled rhododendron leaves are as flat as mortarboards in the 45 degree evening air. Jesse has retreated to the back porch bench where the summer cushions are still fluffy nests for his naps on warmish days.
Inside the kitchen the lone leftover cipolino looks like a toy top. My polished stone heart glows softly, and this buckeye from a few weeks ago has caved in and grown lumpy and perfect for carrying like a worry stone in a pocket.
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