Skim of fog

This morning's gauzy atmosphere represented the inside of my head, owing to a near full moon, strange loud noises in the wee hours, dogs baying and yipping early, sleep brutally slain. Still, the contrast by late morning is so dramatic you can't help but pull a Lazarus. Our friend across the street gave us leave to harvest a bunch of multi-colored sunflowers, which we put in a vase where my mom sits to read. She commented that Van Gogh would have loved them.
Got distracted from Mr. Penn Warren by a number of tempting reviews in this month's New York Review of Books. The next stretch of reading is shaping up.