Yesterday was hot.
An unusual summer, either hot or cold, no mildness between. Sometimes we live on the poles of existence, an extreme of this, an extreme of that, and we accept it as normal, just as diaries I've read from the 1930s hardly mention the hardships of the depression. You have to intuit it, as when the Hargraves started peddling apples in Ripon.
Mourning dove. Squirrel. Grey haze. Sun seeking fierceness. I walk to the car.
"Hazy sunshine," the radio says.
No county workers along Highway E. One lane has been completed, part of the other remains torn up.
At Five Corners the retired farmer works at his flowerbeds. He doesn't care about the haze, the heat. He's going to care for his flowers. You do what you can.