speared and tiny

i’ve revolutionized my squishing method
i call out in the squash beds

where the day is already heating up even though
we met to begin at 8 instead of the usual 9
in regards to using the back of the garden clipboard
to press the bronze eggs against
with my finger

speared and tiny we call the pile of
speared and tiny garlic as we
work our way down the beds of the sandhill variety by
moving the impossibly dried/hard lookfar soil
with our digging forks
(by impossible i mean
the exclamation sound baigz gave when
he bent the metal
where the fork joins the handle
trying to lever the soil up
[it comes in chunks] with his body weight)
we should mark it
i say

sticking an orange flag in the ground
where last week we heard a squeak and thought
maybe dottie squashed a mouse
and where this week the squeak is still there
and dottie groans thinking he killed another mouse
but when i pull up the mulch
it is a frog
making small squeaks
holed up in the cool clay
how once dottie does his acceptance speech for
the zinnia award in the spiral we are weeding
the ridiculousness/hilarity is on from there
(difficult to retell but
somehow an exchange/association of rare/fabulous/weird/hilarious words
ensued including: churlish, tumescent, cantankerous
and the word rhombus became an insult)

beige/gray tiny (but very round) snake
shiny as it curves itself through
the growing cactus zinnias

like a double-angled snow plow
how i use my hands
to clear a way through the duckweed before me
as i swim into the newly sandy shore
raccoon (not adult, not baby)
in its black mask white stripes
scuttling along a branch and up the trunk
how i try to call it back out to say hi
because i am struck by seeing its face so clearly
(usually, it’s a blurry  hunched shape
bounding across a street in orange street light glow
as i approach on bike)
how the dust rising from the gravel road i run along
as a propane truck passes
soaks up the orange/gold/pink glow
of near-sunset light

hurling cabbage stems and base leaves
into the cart
and hauling their weight
across the yard
racing the hours of light left
to finish everything i intend to finish today
knowing i won’t but also knowing
i made significant progress
on this miraculously mosquito-less night
(one benefit of drought?)
i sit for at least a half hour
on the leopold bench
in the dark
moonstar curled and sometimes purring
sometimes sleeping and sometimes
resting her hed on my forearm
and watch the fireflies fill the
expanse of night fill in
with their blink/stutter/chorus of light


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