An exerpt from a story of mine from 2022:

When I walked there it was always in a circle, for it was laid out that way, like a ritual.  The pines would get pushed around by the wind like the little lights atop ten thousand candles, and that is where I would bring my questions, I would bring my questions to the field and she would answer me, sometimes immediately, in lively conversation, sometimes slowly and over a season or so.

The milkweed pods turned black in April, stunners in any season, but a darker decor for sure, this early in spring, when the main road would fill up with roadkill and the college students would stumble through the gas station parking lot screaming and crying and fighting.

The little lace paper lanterns were hanging on all low to the ground, as though the ground cherries were still safe inside after all of the ice and snow and wind of the winter, and these latticed cradles held them and rocked them in their soft small sleep. As though their intolerance to frost was only imaginary.

I found a golden grass growing taller than myself, and paired it with the pussywillows still gilded green at the tips with the white fuzz sprouting. 

Two different kinds of red berries – the bright red for easier picking, the darker red with the thorned brambles like roses – had decked out the December gray, and the juniper bursting with bunches of blue. The meadow went through these cycles seamlessly, giving rhythm to a time untethered. The meadow had her moods.