This is your in breath.
This is your out breath.
If you're doing this, you're not doing something else.
15 days now and, really just now, the first peas are coming to the surface.
There's still snow on the coppice. There's still snow on the eve's of the old LDS church with the Russian onion spire.
But it's all receding. The wild rose in the corner of the yard is budded out, fuchsia and ochre and yellow billowing and turning under the thinning sheaths. There's red too, in places.
The old scraggly pear needs trimming, but it too loves life and loves this sun.
Red-tailed hawks have made a nest high up in a non-native sitka spruce across the street. The black-capped chickadees and house sparrows are not happy about this development. They stay low and close to their junipers, complain loudly. Sleep quietly.
This is my in breath.
This is my out breath.
If I'm doing this, I'm not doing something else.
The lettuces have survived the recent cold spell, safe in clodded sphagnum and leaf litter.
Their world is blue and motherly. And, if we pay attention, we're not so different. Rooted, connected, splaying always toward the sun. We don't make our food from it directly, but no matter. We eat lavishly underneath its empyrean.
A honey bee staggers along the fence post, is emboldened, jumps, and does not land.
If she does this, she does not do anything else -