(June 20, 2025, at 7:42 p.m., Pacific Time)

Suddenly, there’s so much outside
to do, now that the last of fall
leaves that didn’t come down

till January have been blown
or yanked from under the lantana
profuse with orangey-red

pom-poms like miniature citrus.
And because we live in the land
of little rain, even the tongues

of the most drought-tolerant
pant for water. So we take
to the yard morning or

evening—sometimes both—
to spray, sprinkle, shower
and mist the thirsty,

delighted to see them
on this day of seemingly
endless sunshine, unlike

the depths of winter when
we cannot imagine the sky
lightening before 6, not

darkening till 9. We will tire
of all the watering by September,
wish for cooler days and

elusive precipitation. But now,
like the plants, we thrive in all
this blesséd light,

all this wing and buzz and hum.
We point the hose at our
flip-flopped feet, grinning

as the water cools our hot toes,
the sun still well above the horizon,
twilight a distant illusion

on this lovely, longest day.

•••

(With thanks to poet Tess Taylor for her inspiration.)