The sharp clip of wind
Caught us, right there
At the old June Apple Tree. We braced our backs and memories as the spring peepers danced in the twilight of gushing streams.
I think we knew of the changes around the western curve but why bother;
A new morning brings a flush of blue, a squawk of ducks flying over the bottoms.
It will take years, we thought, to find the bluebells.
We have many journeys.
The crossings slippery, to be sure.
There lies the promise of the last varnish on the painting.
You will know, said the sage, when it is finished.