The 9th of August
I water echinacea and watch melons grow. I find the scattered feathers of Turkeys in the morning, and the blood dripped dried below. I watch infinity’s strata unfold as keets corralled amass and grow into spotted Guinea Fowl. I recall, remember, am reminded of the depth of space, the tininess of me, as I peer into that Black, milky night sea. I pull a hundred weeds as suns the horizon burn end-to-end: green weeds without, and gray weeds within. I clear the stepping stones of dust the wiping nearly effortless. I’m stung, bit, and scratched— their thousand marks won’t last. The song is sung, the day’s a lung and it’s breathing, honey, it’s nearly won.
The 10th of August
Augustly I pluck blueberries fat from weighted and hanging branches. The sun sets foreheads to dotted wetness, the skin to steady darkening: in time. Some berries aren’t quite there, though, aren’t yet ripe for white beds of yogurt. You can tell by the color, for one thing, and the ease. The ease with which the berry releases, changes. The ease with which it accepts its unclinging. And as I stroll and sometimes sprint through The garden, I am all the while waiting for the plump berries. If, say, I were to force a pinked and tiny one OFF its little branch, who, do you suppose, would eat it? You could eat it, sure. It wouldn’t taste very good, no. So we’ll wait and we’ll pick the fat, blue blueberries, and pop them in our mouths.
Ian Curriden is from Bentonville, Arkansas. He’s currently on a leave of absence and spends his days planting wildflowers, writing, and, most importantly, perfecting his chicken curry recipe.