In the language ergatocracy
Sense is bossman and sounds no sore loser,
Leviathan incarvillea, echoing makai poetry,
Absorbing, they inspissate an avodá of probity.
Me hoy minoy, forgo a dot-bomb fate,
Bob’s yer sponge, exploding with joy.
All the cicadas are singing their little hearts out. Or maybe it’s only 30-50 of them. Their dog day is almost upon them. Meanwhile, the hairy woodpecker is trying its hardest to defenestrate the house. I do blame the carpenter bee grubs though – on the upside, it’s natural pest control, and good riddance to the annoying wood-gnawers! It’s hot. Despite all the rain we’ve had, there are very few snails or slugs around. Or frogs.
I must remember to store the almond butter upside down.