The calendar claims it's spring, but the days have been wearing more like the tank tops of summer: full sun with a breeze against your arms. Outside days. Bare feet upon spongy grass days. Days when you can hear your neighbors' business through thin window screens. Zoey, you better find your way home now. It's eight-thirty and your mama's calling you in. Days for planning and planting, watering can in hand - mama catching through her lens that before summer's end her little one may need a big metal watering can to call her own. Muscles weary by day's end, but eyes still alight with visions of new beginnings: the sprouts of the ground, the return of feathers to air, baby toes digging into carpet trying to push forward. Using up all the strands of day until we retreat to shade and home and table. At last tucking into some bread, and dreaming of meals of the harvest to come.
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