Let me tell you that this weekend Sunday morning in the country fills my soul with tranquil joy: the dunes beyond the pond beyond the humps of bayberry – my favorite shrub (today, at least) – are silent as a mountain range: such a subtle profile against a sky that goes from dawn to blue. The roses stir, the grapevine at one end of the deck shakes and turns its youngest leaves so they show pale and flower-like. A redwing blackbird pecks at the grass; another perches on a bush. Another way, a millionaire’s white chateau turns its flank to catch the risen sun. No other houses, except this charming one, alive with paintings, plants and quiet. I haven’t said a word. I like to be alone with friends. To get up to this morning view and eat poached eggs and extra toast with Tiptree Goosberry Preserve (green) -and coffee, milk, no sugar. Jane said she heard the freeze-dried kind is healthier when we went shopping yesterday and she and John bought crude blue Persian plates. How can coffee be healthful? I mused as sunny wind streamed in the car window driving home. Home! How lucky to have one, how arduous to make this scene of beauty for your family and friends. Friends! How we must have sounded, gossiping at the dinner table last night. Why, that dinner table is this breakfast table: “The boy in trousers is not the same boy in no trousers,” who said? Discontinuity in all we see and are: the same, yet change, change, change. “Inez, it’s good to see you.” Here comes the cat, sedate, that killed and brought a goldfinch yesterday. I’d like to go out for a swim but it’s a little cool for that. Enough to sit here drinking coffee, writing, watching the clear day ripen (such a rainy June we had) while Jane and Joe sleep in their room and John in his. I think I’ll make more toast.