Lines for a wet summer

A wet summer. At the entrance to the hollow, twin peaks of gravel.

Storm-carved ruts on the gravel driveway fill up with hailstones.

Blue damselflies patrol the slow-moving waters of the blueberry bog.

Done berry picking, I wash the bog mud off my legs with brown bog water.

Morning thunder, then rain. “It’s just getting it out of its system, right?”

An indoor picnic. The child climbs the steep stairs to the green room.

In lieu of a curtain, a checkered shirt catches the evening sun.