Every thing I see is perfect. If only for this infected bite on my thigh and the panting impatience of my bored dog. Dense grass. Blooming clover. Green leaves on lilac and ash. Sinewy spruce. Rippling cedar. The blighted Norway maple out of view at the front, while I slouch over candescent screen, at the table, on the patio, in the back yard. Don't dwell on the sagging plastic shed stained with algae. The sky is a gentle blue, sun but slightly veiled, the air warm, breeze cool, light clear but not too bright. Even the shadows look safe and inviting. The morning’s interruption of a meowing chainsaw is long forgotten— at least by the robins, sparrows, and finches, drowsing in the languid afternoon. It will not last. But don’t despair. The worries in your head are for tonight, when sleep won’t come, and the itching will be unbearable.