What Goes On

Yesterday I took the kids blueberry picking at a farm near Nevada. There's nothing like scorching in the Iowa sun between rows of blueberry bushes with beetles and grasshoppers tumbling past ankles in some great flight while dust from gravel roads tickles the back of your throat. Nothing like that light when there isn't a cloud for miles and the green takes on a more vivid hue. It's stinky, sticky, and loud with nature. And when you pick your own fruit and bring it home to savor you bring those images with you. All of it goes into that berry. I have a poem about this very idea that I'll include on Monday. Phoenix picked one berry and then sat down and pouted about who knows what--it changes so often. Fisher became a master--he always cherishes delicate work.

 And here's a few more pics that my friend Tana snapped when she visited. Right now I imagine she's in Vondel Park in Amsterdam pushing her son in a swing and pointing out cool looking bikes and magicians and flowers and performers. I imagine there's lots of golden sun and lots of music competing for sound. They can hear 8 different languages spoken within 10 minutes of watching people pass. And because she and her son are beautiful they turn heads, cause hearts to warm and smiles to form that will eventually spill into a reflection in a canal where it will shimmer on the water and catch the eye of some sky bird. All because someone happened to glance at my friend.