Clouds unfurled across the plateau this evening like a great flannel sheet. The dogs have all crashed. I hate to deprive the frogs but I really should try to catch a moth or two for the tarantulas. They could use the excitement; not much going on in those little glass boxes.

Coming home from town today we pulled onto the shoulder of Hwy. 395 and picked a sackful of apples from a feral fruit tree. The scent of apples new off the tree—that Proustian thing. Grandma Gardner's shimmering clear apple jelly in little glasses she kept in the cupboard with the Currier & Ives-print plates and sauce dishes... Can't help it. I always go there.

If it looks like a good day for it, we should hike a little after breakfast.
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