Oak limbs and blue sky reflected in my spoon. Thousands of spring peepers were chorusing down by the bog lake. It was summer in spring; I could have kissed the mosquitoes that were biting my ankles. Next to me on a plate was a cinnamon bun, and I was alone and on a personal retreat. Just me and a warm meal outside.
I hiked down the hill to say goodnight to the peepers, watching the sandhill crane unfold its wings in an aggressive gesture (more…)