Uncanny day of summer-like sunshine—if the uncanny, the unhomelike, which Freud taught us to be inseparable from its opposite, can be said to still exist on a planet being systematically stripped of its hospitality. Followed, as the night follows the day, by an evening of severe storms, “golf-ball-sized hailstones” as the meteorologists like to say, a-babbling like all of us of green fields. Cops chased my daughter and me from our old picnic ground by the lake today, so we sat on our building’s front lawn instead and watched the hours drift gently by. Life goes on past all expecting.