the yard


The rain stopped and Ben, in his pyjamas, was curled up with Curious George and a Rice Krispie square and so I put on my boots and went to see what's waking up around this still-unknown house: quince.



Little moss-stalks.


Something that looks like grass but isn't. It's soft, and waxy, and all in a clump. It's greener than green. I keep wondering what's going to peek up from its middle.




There's fairies at the creek, not rainbow-sparkles-glitters ones but muddy ones, the ones who make space under the deadfall and come out at night to scold the crows. I give this a ting-ting-tingle, like we always do, and I whisper. But not too loud. They're sleeping.


A recent Dark Rye assignment teaches me that dandelions are salad. There's lots.


Hosta, the most obliging.


Imminent scraping-cramp.


Back inside misty and flushed and nibbled by blackflies and he's still there curled up, just so curly and warm, and I pry one boot off and then the next, and I pat across the floor to him and say Right here, right on my smacker! And he puckers, and we smooch, and he smiles big and wipes his face on his sleeve, and so do I. And I put the kettle on thinking loppers; seed; rake; saw; pastry.