Not for long, they'll fly away

The Northwest is at its gentle change of seasons. A curtain of rain is pulled over the valley, to ensure an immediate soaking of mild summer memories. Allspice and cardamom are readied at the whim of handy bakers.


Cloud banks part by wintery sky and cool like berry rivers of a homemade cobbler. Barefoot and hovering over the sink,I watch the sun burn away valley mist.


In September there are always suprises. There are perfect afternoons, temperate in beauty and impermanent as a leaf suspended in a spider's magic trick. The seasons promise us things that don't last and so with joy, we accept fall's transitional trance.


Bees feast in the caverns of grounded orchard pears. If only I could catch a few to make me honey. Would they stay in a home I hollowed out for them? My dad said, "Not for long, they'll fly away."


The promise of Hendrick's peaches on the corner lot made my skin itch at the memory of their fuzz just under my nose. The branches were bare this year. Maybe they forgot I would be expecting them...

To Kill A Mocking Bird

As I read To Kill A Mockingbird for the second time in a long time, I'm reminded of just how much I love it. Naive but wonderful observations and childhood questions are sealed within its pages. Sometimes hope is broken, but Harper Lee always makes it seem beautiful. Maycomb is a place to linger under the Camellias of a Southern summer I haven't lived, but am apt to feel a bit more like I did.




Childhood is a strange country. It's a place you can come from or go to—at least in your mind. For me, it has an endless, spellbound something in it that feels remote. It's a little like a sealed-vault country of cake breath and grass stains where what your do instead of work is spin until you get dizzy.—Lyall Bush