It is almost the time. Sunlight comes through trees in shadows, Grass and weeds in the dust, Ants and gnats, a bee, Birds and their chirping, Poison oak with madrone, Pine and dry scrub brush, scrub trees, The breeze that scatters ashes from our fire. We argue. We can always be too careless, while we wait for the heat to make this a day. Now we see the sky, and notice it is blue.
28 May 1973