The sky in the wee hours shone milky white, a cloud latte without celestial seasoning. Mocha sheep pastured below the froth and a toad belched. A cat, slinking along our shins, startled us.
The air was wet and cool and I didn’t miss the meteors since what brewed up in their place was this sweet evening with glimmering hosta flowers.
The bowl of the heavens was white, and white also (that last phrase was a verbal tic of James Joyce’s) were the low picket fences along the butterfly gardens.
So no dark sky, no black brew studded with stars, for ol’ UD last night. “Sorry about the rain!” wrote the cottage keeper in the note she attached to our breakfast basket this morning. She walked it down from her house (she wore a yellow poncho and a knee brace): A goat cheese frittata, sausages, cheese grits with bacon (“use green chili salt if desired”), date nut muffins, rhubarb tart, fruits, coffee, tea.
(As I write this, on the cottage porch, a hummingbird buzzes me.)
Strange that this place, Pleasant Springs Farm, is only fifteen minutes from the built-up suburb of Germantown. These thirty acres are tranquil, pristine, with all the rustic bells and whistles.