The agastache keeps blooming. It has the longest-lasting perennial flowers I know.
The Frenchie blooms quite well, too.
The strawberries are at last in an inbetween stage. I think I have managed to eat all the fruit. It's quite a relief. It was like a persecution: every morning there would be more red, ripe berries. Eat me. Now they have flowers and will make some more. I will want them again.
The fig. The fig.
I don't know. Perhaps it is just tired. 30-ish fruit, this year? After last year's bumper crop. Still, they are good.
And I ate the first one as I seem to eat every first fig, standing on a chair, leaning for the fruit, eating it before I have climbed down again. Wondering vaguely if the neighbors can see me. Trying to remember what if felt like to imagine this early August so far away, looking ahead at it, months and months from the tiny green shoots I could see emerging from the cold, bare grey branches.
And we are there.
August is happening now. Spring is far behind.