“A road, could be anywhere. In my case, two of my children were born on this road. So if I pay attention to the slant of light across the intersection, pondering its position under a complex of ridges. Nothing seems to stay the same, or as I knew it, or attached to the stories I used to know. Funny thing, moving back to a place after almost 30 years gone, a place that you never wanted to leave but had to. The dips & curves haven’t left my steering wheel I guess, I know how to drive here, and where to slow down. A few crumbling bridges, still remain. What would I do without their quirky twists, I still feel in my bones. It’s a kind of love, to roll gently onto ancient platforms of cement, formerly stone, formerly a ford, perhaps, to cross a wild river. How that water creates itself, how it replenishes in endless supply, hurts maybe, or makes me wake up to my job description, all the time. The few who catalog it, intuitively, every inch of its turbulent, uncatchable flow through the heart, or the village, who stay up at night to catch up with lost numbers. It’s true, we’ve fallen behind. What we’d hoped to honor, drop by drop, maybe got past us while we lived poorly, & didn’t thrive. And I don’t blame any of us, no, I don’t. I just mourn the loss of how much love has been squandered, due to the mental prisons, we’ve been lured into. Ah, so much, so much that didn’t happen, that could have. So I feel I must redouble my efforts, the more I relive this pain of separation. In the plant kingdom, it’s easier, not so fraught with guilt. The coquettish spent beauty of wilted lily blossoms that I pluck as they ooze or flutter in dried form, meets my hand with a lively punch of vitality. I’m careful to avoid new buds, & have learned not to be clumsy and knock stuff off. My role is merely to facilitate the best in others. When I can do it for myself as well, I do. My scissors trim the crisp stems of coral bells, gone by, as well as geranium. This hot spell brings mildew, & an ache, for more, more and more relief from heat. The clouds, may bring mercy. I feel, all day, the chance, of solid rain. It skirts the hills, and plays a game, I can’t quite master. The long, dusty confines of my smallish, weeding world, merely baits a larger question. My hands on autopilot, setting the stage, coordinating, fine tuning, so that heaven sent water may bless our plots more effectively, with a whopping deluge. I suppose it’s co-creation I’m leaning into. Because, that always wins. A signal, a sign, that we’re doing things together. Not alone. Not more of that. Like the cashier, taking my money, for a coffee, a Kombucha, and a sticky bun. The bun, hidden in a bag. She gestured, guessing what I had in there. “One ...” and her question lingered in the air. “Yes” I said. “One ...” and I drew a swirl or a spiral in the air, sort of using sign language in case my voice didn’t hold up. I decided not to exert myself, or open the bag so that she could count the pastries herself. I figured I’d been standing here at the check out, enough years, maybe 20, in varied conditions, even and including pandemics, that she might finally trust me to tell her the truth. It turned out to be the right call. I could see she didn’t care anymore, if she ever had, if I was trying to steal an extra bun or ever had. She probably knew by now, I was just someone on their way to work with shovels, rakes and pitch forks. Not a threat to national security. And unlikely to rip anyone off, at a general store. Or more likely incredibly grateful, at my next stop, to be offered vegetables fresh picked out of a garden, as thunder rolls over the tops of the huge hemlocks, and down & across the pond; the swooping dark birds invite me into a drama I love, & darkness pours in like burnt honey, the wind whipping up excitement, and the hustle to collect tools and park vehicles, & frozen in time, I’m no long divided from the bliss of summer as it passes before me.”