The grass is brown around the edges in Cape Cod and people dig through garages for rarely used sprinklers and hoses. Coming from the West, it’s hard to call it a drought, but the plants are undeniably crunchier than usual. Moderate, not severe, according to a map of droughts covering the USA.
On a quick trip to Martha’s Vineyard, a woman points the beach plums out to us. In August they turn dark red and, after cutting the seeds out, are ready to eat or turn into jam. We are too early but try them anyway, they are sour and hard.
I download a birdsong app on my phone and it quickly picks out sparrows, cardinals, a goldfinch, and cowbird. I’m reading the novel Migrations by Charlotte McConaghy, about a woman in the near future following the last flock of Arctic terns on their final migration to Antarctica, after most other birds have gone extinct. So far, it is great! But, it has me thinking as I walk and bike by low lying houses, beach plums, and seagulls.. how beautiful and fragile we all are and dependent on a precarious balance.
There is rain in the forecast. There is also humidity in the air and so many green trees. Drought seems a relative term.
smagik 