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?
