First Summer's Day

On the first day of summer, I rise early and stretch towards the sun. Red looks at me from the floor raising one eyebrow and then another as if to say, "Are you done yet?" She is anxious for her walk. But I take the time to reach and bend, to bring summer into my bones and muscles, the deep joints of the hips, under the shoulder blades.

We take the trail by the river, not too many bugs, but lots of other dogs and their people. We all look goofy in our own way, the dogs with lathering tongues and lopsided grins, the people with floppy hats, mis-matched socks, glasses fogged with sweat. Red cries when another dog approaches even the old ones that limp along still happy to be a dog outside in the sun. She tolerates puppies who can't help but jump and nip at her red ears.

It is a good morning to drink hot sweet tea on the front steps, read the paper, take a nap.

It smells so fragrant, the day after a night of rain, the air rich with chamomile, pitch pine, unfolding ferns.

A good day to read a poem or two, Mary Oliver, to watch the dog sleep in the sun, wave at the young child next door drawing with chalk on the driveway.

There is time for more tea, writing in my journal (not the computer), talking on the phone with an old friend.

And late in the evening, when the peepers start to peep, the red wing black birds cease their chatter, the cattails rattle in the wind, a swim in the cool dark lake.