"In August, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke their tender limbs."
-  Henry David Thoreau

Good morning, August. I woke later than usual and happily tired from all of yesterday’s activity. I take the move into this first day of August day slowly. The girls are up and we decide to take Charlie for a walk into the meadow where the girls are overwhelmed by the magnificence of the blooming Queen Anne’s Lace. It’s hot, and we’re all tired, and after picking fresh blackberries from the bushes, we stroll back over the trestle bridge. My son arrives after I water the flowers and we sit and meditate on socially distanced chairs in the shade of a tree. I have asked him, first, to play his flute. I close my eyes and let the music and the breeze wake me into the invitation of change on this first day of August. It’s a writing day for me, preparing my poetry manuscript for an intensive workshop next weekend. In the late afternoon, I take a break. My youngest is home and I want to sit and listen. She has so much to say and I am glad I am making the time for her. I feel a little anxious, with this deadline I’ve chosen. I trust that I will have the time to get everything I need to get done done. There is a moon, almost full, in a black summer sky of August.