Overheard On A Saltmarsh

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  Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them? Give them me. No. Give them me. Give them me. No. Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them. Goblin, why do you love them so? They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green glass beads on a silver ring. Hush, I stole them out of the moon. Give me your beads, I want them. No. I will howl in the deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give them me. Give them. No. - Harold Monro (1879 - 1932)

Getting Things Done

Mowed my face and mowed the yard. Now I look like a homeless guy.
Prolly smell like one too . . . 

Weeded, cultivated, replanted a few beans (only half came up).
Tomatoes, broccoli, cabbage, squashes and few cukes are doing fine.

Cut up some logs (not all pictured here). Some ready to split already!
Can't wait!

Might be soda . . .

The rest of the evening is reading the English translation of Méthode nouvelle de dresser des recueils (New Method of Organizing Common Place Books) by John Locke (1685) to see what I can learn about changing my journal methodology. Besides, reading is what cool people do. 

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