Monday, July 14 

The aggressive plant growing up the side of my house is a trumpet vine. I didn't plant it, but I've watched it multiply over the past few years until it finally produced a series of red trumpet-like blossoms. I didn't know what it was until I saw those same flowers in the community garden at Frog Island Park and finally looked it up. At least it’s native.

Through the haze of Canadian wildfire smoke I walk up to a brewpub to read my Icelandic detective novel in which the characters are suffering similarly smoky skies from a volcanic eruption. Up the gravel track through Frog Island, a man is stretching his legs on the soccer pitch and blasting Latin music from a boombox. At the other end a group of kids are sitting cross-legged on the concrete amphitheatre stage. Apart from the smog, it's a perfectly lazy summer night in Ypsilanti. I think about how happy I've been living in this town over the past four years. 

Inside the brewery a man is speaking to a packed house. A keyboardist sits behind him. I order a beer and ask the bartender what's up. "It's opera night. We're actually closed for a private event, but I'll serve you." The man begins singing and I escape out the side door to sit in the little beer garden overlooking a very subdued Depot Town. Two tables away a woman is quietly crocheting some type of garment. Otherwise, the place is deserted. I read my book and people-watch. A train passes. A mezzo soprano threatens the glass window. There’s a round of applause. It’s a soothing blend of sounds.

Walking home along the ridge I notice how low the river is. Out in the thigh-deep channel a fly fisherman casts his line. To my right, down in the park, two dogs run full tilt across the fresh cut grass.