And the corn grows so tall I can't see over it.
Red-winged blackbirds perch on the ears.
At night beyond the pasture bears grunt working through crab apples rotting in the grass.
And the moon seems to pass.
And the light comes, and grows stronger, and fades.
Sometimes I think of each word as a package, a little gift.
The last of the chicory sags.
The sunflowers are happier now at night.
In the morning, the dog and I walk out to the old fire pond and watch beavers paddling back and forth.
The Great Blue Heron stands quietly in the distance.
Cameras are deceptive.
As sentences are, though differently.
In my dream she said again: the only book is your heart.
I woke happy, tangled in dewy blankets.
All morning I write and read and all afternoon I work with Chrisoula, putting up kale and broccoli and blueberries.
We talk about the doctor and her recommendations.
Hawks pass over and the chickens scurry beneath the shed.
Hummingbirds perch on the old goat fence and at night I walk out to where we buried their bones and see again blood and again feel the sorrow of one who has caused more pain than he intended.
Grapes emerge, and blushing apples.
And in the forest, the smell of pine needles floats on the wind, the only letter necessary.