Moist.

It's moist and gray, really dank -- but nicely cool -- here in Madison today. It's been so pretty all week, but I have a ton of work to get done, so it's okay with me. I've got a thousand résumés to read -- literally. (I'm chairing the Appointments Committee.) And I've got three smallish, more-or-less scholarly things to crank forward. And some other things that I ought to write on a to-do list so I don't fritter away mental energy intermittently prompting myself to do.

Anyway, like that tree fungus? It's so clean and crisply designed. Not really that fungus-y, as fungus goes. I ran across it yesterday, walking to school, when I detoured from the main lake path up onto the woodland path:





That last picture after that last post makes me want to link to these lyrics (which were not written by Cat Stevens):

Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlight from heaven.
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetnes of the wet garden,
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning.
Born of the one light Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise every morning;
God's recreation of the new day.