back yard

Believe me, I think I've hit the Dog Days of Summer when I end up posting a picture of the back yard. But then, so much of the summer is being ruled by the back yard, or, to be more exact, by the baby bluebirds in that bluebird house. How old are they now? Ten, eleven, twelve days? Four days until they might fly? Or six, or eight? Four more days in which we can't let out the cats (under supervision, of course), can't clear the monstrous growth of tumbleweed, have to eat our meals out front, tiptoe gently to the composter outside the back wall ( a practice so mocked, of course, in The Kids Are All Right that one knows that the revolving drum is on a par with the heirloom tomatoes that we've tried to grow (and two, even, were harvested ... that is, two three-quarter tomatoes were harvested, the remainder having been eaten by a random critter). And we'll probably be in LA, and hence, for the second time this summer, miss the actual launch day. Nonetheless, until we leave for points west, our only excursions out back are to shoo off sparrows - though not, of course, the two handsome quail who are patrolling down the wall. And it's all very anxiety-making.