Two crows steal apples from the orchard, black-eyed thieves shuttling their cargo (only what’s ripe) into the woods. Do I pick now or wait until the crop’s ready, risking a full-scale heist? Not just crows, either: coons, woodpeckers . . .
Quiet on the deck this morning. Dry July, no dew on the table, the Straits glassy flat where local breezes brushstroke the surface a darker blue. Beyond, the Olympics hunker on the horizon, their peaks touched with white. A dog barks in the distance.
Each day we wade into life.
We have plans, of course!
Things we’ll get to,
get back to.
Each day I pass the barn we built,
twenty-five years back,
my friend and I he the craftsman,
the one who knew, who taught the city boy
To look at me, you wouldn’t think I was the kind of guy who wears jewelry, but I happen to own a Northwest Coast Indian bracelet. It just goes to show, you never know.