The bike path begins just behind our house - or I should say, a bike path, as Burlington has several - and winds its way to Colchester to the north. About 3 miles down, there's a dirt path that veers off into the Ethan Allen Homestead, and thence to the Intervale. The fields where I learned to cross-country ski last winter are shoulder-high in corn now, most of them, though some are pasture. Some of the trail goes through wood and meadow, with butterflies - monarchs, swallow-tails, and purple and white and blue ones I didn't know - birds, and bees flitting around, chipmunks startling into my path, determined runners who did not return my greeting, and then eventually the blueberry fields. I now have a blueberry mead - or, more properly, a melomel - in the fermentation closet, next to the new batch of sauerkraut.

The last batch has been moved to the fridge; the last batch of pickles was finished this afternoon and we'll start a new one after the farmers' market tomorrow. A new bird at the feeder, but I couldn't tell what it was. How is it almost August?