I nip into the skin, peeling it back a bit with my teeth so as not to lose a drop of the juice to the ground, then sink into a big bite. Still it spurts. I suck quickly to get as much of the juice as possible, slurping unabashedly. Read more …
Charcoal clouds hover, too high to drop their load just yet, but they darken and grow heavier with every step I take. Soon. The clouds barely move, and the air here, on the ground, is still. There’s something about the light on an overcast day. Every leaf, twig and flower is vibrant with texture and […]
We are miles from the Village–Janine, Sena, Cheyenne, Ruby, Merilee, Betty, and I–on our first campout of the season. Minimalists, we sleep on bare ground, our bags zippered close for warmth, thick trampled grasses beneath for cushion.
It is a gorgeous, sunny day in the nursery. Gauzy white curtains flutter at the screened sills. The windows across the western wall are thrown open, letting the spring breezes through–as well as the scents of fresh laundry flapping on the lines and apple pie baking in the kitchens.
I taste the snow, each individual crystal bursting as it melts on my tongue. My mitten smells of wet wool and cold.
Bedtime. … The air wafting through the porch screens is cool-warm, with the scent of rain. My fingers smell of bruised mint leaves, picked from the herb garden beside the stoop not twenty minutes ago.
Of course, the best peach treat is a fuzzy, yellow and pink orb, picked fresh from the tree, so ripe it drops into your hand at a touch, so full of sweet juice that when you bite into it, you have to lean out, mouth over the ground.
As we left, Lotty and I strung a garland of wild asters and daisies across the door, to be removed only by the bride and groom on the morrow, when they enter to spend their first night in their new home.
Across the meadow, and round a huge outcrop of granite, we heard the upper falls before we saw them–two high ribbons, one far above the other, glistening water cascading down a sharp escarpment.