Ahoy! Her Master’s Voice

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.

Why stop now? Every month is poetry month…

Knock Knock

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.