Rain this morning after a
long Indian Summer. But
with nobody, almost.
Joking about being com-
petitive, etc., we walk
down Pine Street for
a few days. Reading
a poem about pigeons
by Lewis Ellingham
in the latest Mirage.
About getting rid
of them. And
other things.
The crab
enchiladas
are too ex-
pensive. In-
stead, we
should go to
Boston for
turkey, like
everyone
else I don’t
know.
