Feast of first fruits, when the sweet corn and plums ripen,
tomatoes swell bright red, split from the vine and drop,
when dragonflies, big as your fist, dart across fields,
and cicadas sear the air, we stack our first cord
of hardwood and watch the ridge steal the sun, shadows
trespassing into places once beyond their reach.
We bind wheat into shocks, as our ancestors did,
and bake bread in the shape of an owl, breaking it
into quarters, one for each corner of our barn.
Midway between summer and fall, the beginning
of loss, we can almost hear the wheel turn, that low
rumble-creak. Even in fullness, there’s a passing.
Painting by Amber Rose Crowtree
Smoky Quartz 