It's the sort of day where things arrive in clusters. Group-upon-group of dangling figs ready to plop off of the tree. Butterflies that form capelets and define the word "nectarivorous." (If we had more butterflies working on our dictionaries, maybe the illustrations wouldn't be so...you know...text-detracting in a sad-way.)
Books are clattered across the floor, which is terrible for their spines. So it seems my personal library might need back surgery along with new binding.
Quotes are grouped in my head as well. C.S. Lewis and Tolkien and Napoleon and Socrates (would they get along, incindentally?). But Augustine sums it up here:
"The Holy Scriptures are our letters from home."
Paul's letter to Timothy is singing through my brain and my pen. God is good. And it's so easy to remember that on this sort of day.