The Summer feels like a Death.
I pour into my chair in the Summer house and ironically find refuge from the heat.
A slight breeze rustles through the grape vine and it brings discussions of dolmades and food preservation and it is lively.
Jellies and paraffin as I object to single use canning lids.
I am such a whiner.
Chia versus pectin. Oh! Something about apples I chime in. They can be used instead!
I am being nibbled by a litter. We speak in goo goo ga ga and they adore it.
Slipper is renamed Steve. Today we collectively own her. I wish you could keep her.
I have sage and horseradish root in my pocket as I should.
She hands me a feather. Are you sure I ask? It did not fall for me is the reply and I clutch it tightly with my finger and thumb.
She points out the purple. Usually there is only green. I noticed it too.
And the orange banded araucanas, I don’t know how the teenagers will be ours but I do want to have ownership over them.
The URB liked me last time but I bribed her. I don’t think she is an ugly red bird but I cannot tell them apart.
I saw in her freezer and I was thrilled to be so close to these creatures I have only seen in motion and afar.
The dermestid beetles have cleaned the skull perfectly, the beak shines like black pearls.
I want to take the beetles home and feed them the dead but they would devour my linens and furs and wool too.
It does not stop me from coveting them though.
We are friends these beetles and me. We like the same things.
I watch them in the glass enclosure meticulously work.
I am enthralled by the company and chatting and planning and laughing and somehow we always end up talking about
sperm, or blood and it is the dichotomy of giving life and taking it away.
Both are done purposefully here
and I feel like I belong nestled among the mint brought by the Doukhobors and the squash beneath the crates.
The chickens sample it all and approve.
We taste blackberries and bring home eggs.
She says she gets to visit and get paid and I get eggs that I have been longing for and company my souls needs to be
We plan and laugh and it is so good.
Opals and semi precious stones to mine,
that could be mine. Oh my.
We drive home and we are supermodels being windblown for an imaginary photo shoot to capture our elation.
I tuck into a meal fit for a king of farm fresh, fried duck eggs and an onion from the CSA box sauteed in olive oil and served
with spicy mustard from a previous adventure to Trader Joe’s.
I sit at the kitchen table that has seen so many meals since the 50’s and eat with fork and then fingers;
licking sticky sunshine of my finger tips and lips.
A honk and a wave and I was gifted goat cheese at my door. Such an exotic present! I swoon, mouth watering.
I am blessed.