Summer of

This was a summer

of green herons nesting in the willow next door

of tart cherries–five pounds picked by six- and eight- year-old hands

of grooming and trotting with Cosmo and Malachi and rocking and cooing with Cora and Phoenix

of sisters crossing a squeaky-wood schoolhouse floor, Friday-night glasses of red in hand, and opening a big white back door to meet the hollyhocks, the brick oven and the regulars–doused in dusky golden light

of a spiny-backed orb-weaver at the the Green River overlook and cave crickets congregating in the deep down dark

of a baseball game with faces lit– the first fireworks show of their little lives

of a scribbled note in June: Tegan and Sara and in September not remembering their sound

of Miles Davis and deck demolition and the gospel of Menards

of wasps in the eaves and picking ten cucumbers a day

of four inches of rain at once and its aftermath: mosquitos day and night, dead frogs in the street

of the neighborhood thief caught by camera at 3 a.m.–running, running away–hair flapping behind her like the flags she stole

of Fijian rugby while the zucchini bread baked

of not camping

of gardening in the rain

of getting called outside after dinner to feign frozen while a hundred dragonflies, drones in heavy traffic, darted around–so near us and one another yet never touching (air traffic control unnecessary with all those eyes)–a summer chorus of humming wings

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About OpenFaced

Hey, I'm Ree. Thanks for stopping by.
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One Response to Summer of

  1. Jon says:

    Great to have all these memories committed to words for remembering. I love this.

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