It hardly seems normal—this wave of comfortably cool air that has settled across our area. June’s mugginess, which I’ve come to dread, has been replaced by, “pleasantness,” in the weatherman’s words, that is not to be expected in an Ohio River summer. And, though these dense woods are now lush with leaves, there is a freshness with each breeze that is more like the North Woods of my younger years, than the Midwest.
I wonder if time will ever soften the sharpness of that change—if steamy summers will ever become what I cherish.
Or if we learn to love what we first know--best.
It’s almost time to fly.
The walnut-sized nest is filled to the brim.
Changing position has become like a sword fight in a phone booth.
But, for now, a safe place for a nap.
For now, it’s still home.
The “Turkeys” of Costa Rica
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