Fog covered sunrise this morning
evergreens and firs growing silently out of the white
we, dressed in down vests, thick socks, boots
strapped canvas bags to our shoulders,
huddled around trees picking Bartlett pears
red and green, we picked every one, climbing the hard ladders,
pouring the bounty into wooden, spidery crates.

My Dad and I walked through the field last night,
the now autumnally greenish-grey field,
counting pine saplings.
The dead and the survivors (only 55 didn't make it this year)
which leaves 200 to become strong Ponderosas--
the best numbers we've ever had!

My Dad, solemn and focused, counts carefully
(for him, tree-planting is no small responsibility),
credits the July thunderstorms, the blessed rain this weekend,
weather that redeemed an unnaturally hot and dry June.

The puppy, its big paws and young face, is growing so fast
soon it will be faithful and obedient
(oh, how I long for a dog)

I have studied so many sunrises and sunsets this summer,
have stood every day under a changing sky
have faced, despite sweet skateboarding and a boy I am quite taken by,
no small amount of loneliness.

But oh, I'm not finished finding stories on windy beaches yet!
My ear is to the ground [the song is in the soil]