Beebalm, in front of the [vastly overgrown] apple mint. (And, yes, I know it's still Sunday, but I'm going to bed with a book or three in a few minutes, and I'm not planning to get up early if I can h elp it.)
It seems, at last, to have stopped raining. Well, not showering/storming — this is July, after all — but the all-day-and-night downpours seem to have gone elsewhere. We've had 16 inches of rain (by my backyard gauge) since the first of the month.
All is well here, for the moment: the hummingbirds have appeared, the air is filled with the plaintive cries of adolescent blue jays ("I know I'm as big as you, Mom, but you need to feed me anyway! I'm starving!"), there are small game chickens everywhere (and, I suspect, a thriving feral colony down in the goat lot, which has grown up tremendously now that there are no small goats to gnaw it to the ground), the rhubarb is still among the living despite all the rain (it doesn't like wet feet; fortunately it's on a slope), the fig trees are loaded (which means I cannot, in good conscience, prune them so I can get through the path without being drenched when it has rained), and the new roof is coming along nicely, in spite of some *ahem* questionable workmanship through the years in a few places . . . and, now that I have figured out how to work the new camera (the old one died, after eight years of valiant service), there will be cat pictures.