I'm sorry, but I haven't had the time to post photos recently. I wish I could post a photo now of the stunning colors outside of my window, but the second-hand rendering would just be a disappointment, anyhow.

It's raining, so the garden path is a dense, layered, carpety sort of green, and the different tones of red and white in the brick path Martin lay are as faceted as a cut stone; then there's the lupine blue of the shed, edged with bright white, and the flowers themselves: pumpkin-orange cosmos against pink coreopsis, traffic-cone nasturtiums, the delicate, yellowy lace of dill, the Queen Anne's Lace ruffling up everywhere because we can't be bothered to pull it up.

And now I come to the real drama of our lives these days: one wee brown mouse. This chocolate-colored mouse appeared last week while I was watching TV; he scooted across the floor, spotted me, and skittered back into the sun room. Since that time, he has appeared multiple times and each time he is more brazen in his entry and less fast to disappear. Last night, while I was reading, he ran into the living room again, heard my voice, and came straight for my feet.

EEEEEKKK!

I am silly around mice.

I would not put my feet down for the rest of the evening, and Martin had to come into the room and fetch things for me.

Then Martin had a dream, in which the brown mouse appeared, pleading with Martin to spare his little life.

This morning, at BREAKFAST, mind you, while I, Martin, and Bea were drinking our tea, the mouse twirled across the pergo, gave a little bow, and ducked under the dishwasher.

EEEEEEEK!

The mouse! I yelled, The MOUSE IS HERE! He will be waiting for me when I return from class! I will never be able to put my feet on the floor again!

"He's just a little mouse," Martin said, "And besides, I'm beginning to think he doesn't really exist."

I have seen this mouse, in Martin's company or alone, about five times at least. Martin has never, ever, not even for an instant, spotted it. Except in his dreams, and those dreams are not helpful for one resident of Porter Street who KNOWS the mouse will march over her feet, playing cymbals and a bass drum and sticking out its tongue, with a whole band fleet of mice behind it.

It is kind of a cute little guy, and if I were desperately lonely or in prison for ten years, I would be tempted to befriend it. But, matters being as they are, I want him to just GO AWAY. Maybe I'll try to talk to it nicely and reasonably, or write a letter and leave it in the crack in the sun room floor. He seems like a pretty rational fellow.