it’s a mess out there

how the sky was two parts:
your average usual daytime sky
and the dark grayblue curtain (juniper called it that)
pulled over it in waves/layers
until the wind swirled the tree branches
rattled the windows
and ushered in the storm trifecta:
rain, lightning, thunder

it’s a mess out there the woman in the blue rain coat
says to me as she walks into the landmark building
and i walk out,
raindrops dotting my shoulders
my feet
my back
my arms

the creature perched on neighbor’s side/back porch
crunching through sizeable shells to their sizeable meat
running circles around the cat mint to find a way in through the caging
digging in wet earth,
this is where the feast is stored

righting the tomato plants in their pots
lining the ‘driveway’
that the storm gales toppled over

seeking comfort

buck the big black dog
seeking comfort in the garlic beds
after the thunder rumbles and
lightning flash
under this 180-degree view
of cloud upon cloud upon cloud
we can see weather for miles here

on this wet morning

how the heads of lettuce
crack and squeak as i
try to place/arrange them in the gray plastic tote
attempting to do as little damage as possible
the clumps of mud weighting my boots
so that the walk through the field
with totes of radishes and lettuce
is weebly and wobbly
on this wet morning
while the drizzles come and go


a sunset that is all the colors
and that goes on for at least a half hour
if not more
sortof deserty in the way it reds and pinks
in the cooling at the end of the day
sortof mountainy in the way the horizon
looks blueblack against it
sortof absolutely epic
(an overused word, it has been argued,
which is true, but seriously
this thing kept going
while i washed dishes,
while i made tomorrow’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich,
while i cleaned the counters
and filled the water filter)on

the honeyed

the honeyed smell
of clover and pea flowers
rising from the field as we
roll over it riding the wagon
attached to the tractor
bringing this week’s haul of kohlrabi
into the pack shed
where it will be iced and hand-trucked into the walk-in cooler

strawberries are on
which means horses and buggies parked by the barn
which means amish hands
moving through the fields
plucking the red ripe berry-jewels

in the ditch
as i zoom past
at 50something miles per hour:
an eagle
scanning with its head up
must be a roadkill feast i say
stunned at the quickness and closeness
the bird and i about 7 feet apart

the snake
skinny and a clay-graygreenbrown
almost shiny
mouth open
in the napa cabbage
dead, perhaps sliced
by felipe’s harvest knife


to see from new angles

when the day’s adventure
is just a car ride to town
to grab a few things (most importantly peanut butter cups)
at the co-op,
then of course, one must take roads rarely traveled
to see from new angles
on the way home

from the water world:

Women fetch water from an opening at a dried-up lake in Chennai, India. – voice of america, day in photos

return of the tanned summersong campers

how i cheer
at the return of the
tanned summersong campers
pinknosed and pinkshouldered
and tan-armed and
tired and heart-fed and full
in a good way
arriving with the packed up tents
and bags
and more bags

the deep purple splash
of what appears to be ‘wild’ or re-wilded irises,
on the gravel walk to the creek

apple and i laughing about
getting one of those pill organizers
for her array of supplements
on this, her 46th? birthday
while her dad lies in the hospice house
holding hands with her mom


the swirls and swoops of swallows
under the bridge, over the creek, along the highway and back again
as juniper and i sit creekside and i ask
if it was us that stirred them/that caused this
and she says they’re hunting, feasting, eating flies

the extreme ratio

the crunch of gravel underfoot
as i walk back up the hill
from the mailbox
where, just around the corner,
beyond the shriveled locust blossoms dangling,
where two travel-trailers are parked,
where a skinny but muscley gray cat follows me,
i see the on/off blink
in the not-yet-dark
of the season’s
first firefly
something about the extreme ratio of the small sight – tiny really
to the gigantic heartsplosion it brings