Morning. It’s 5:30 and, miraculously, my children are still sleeping. I untwine Owen’s limbs from mine and slip out from under the sheet, slip downstairs, slip water into the teakettle. Late June. Holy late June: goat’s beard, spirea, anemone, fern. Lawnmower, wood thrush, robin, crow. Black tea, honey, raw milk, tongue. Yesterday at the pond my four-year-old daughter lost her first tooth. Holy late June, late four, holy face of bright sunshine blazing that big old hole. I nearly cried right along with her.
Last night: strawberry picking, old barn, my mother on her motorcycle, arugula pizza on the grill, fearless chickens on the table, wine. Later: big old supermoon.
Does it get any better than this? Can I possibly (please) slow the world’s turning?