the almost

the almost iridescent indigo
of the first larkspurs flowering
on the edge of the herb garden
abundance in the color red:
stainless steel bowl filled with strawberry harvest and
several buckets of cherries awaiting pitting
in the walk-in (and fruits still dangling
off the trees)
how the rare sound of a helicopter overhead
most likley means someone is being airlifted
so when the chopper hums past today
i send wishes along with it
to whoever is aboard
and their dear ones
only four pages into braiding sweetgrass and already
it is a good good book
multiple encounters with the groundhogs
who live under my room
including standing a mere foot from a baby
before it startles off towards cover
and also including many shrieks/whistles
and scampering to shelter and also
several stare downs
and how this is one of the things writing is all about
(meaning: half of the writing
is looking/listening/watching and being curious)
sound of the tractor rolling back in around sunset
from an emergency sorghum watering/rescue
and how the least i could do was clean up dinner
as a way to say thank you for caring
for the little planties
how i leave the phone and ringer on
at night like an emergency hotline
so i can be there
just in case
the lightning bug morse coding
with the on-off of its green LED-like light
as it crawls along the pane
of the cedar room’s north-facing window