There is a small cherry tree blooming in the orchard and I’ve been down to the bridge to pick nettles again. I walked back around the field and into the woods a ways, along the creek, looking for garlic mustard, but didn’t find any patches bigger than that growing against the stump of an old black walnut tree which the county sawed off a few years ago to clear the view of the bridge. The mustard is already blooming small white clusters of flowers, and it grows thick all down the west bank of the creek, mixed with stinging nettles, both plants that thrive in disturbed soil, markers of human interference, but useful ones, in moderation. The sight of its leaves and flowers is familiar to me -and yet today is the first time I can name it.

A few weeks ago the peach trees bloomed. Every year before this, I somehow missed them. They opened up vibrantly pink blossoms the day before Nettie’s fifth birthday, almost glowing in the morning sun. The blooms froze a few days later, which happens more years than not here in Nebraska, but I’m thankful for the blooming even if we won’t have the fruit. I cut some and brought them inside and the flowers made the kitchen smell of honey.

My middle and index fingers are stained yellow with the pollen of dandelions. I keep wandering outside with a bowl or colander to pluck off the sticky heads and bring them in to boil into tea or syrup. I gave a small bottle to some neighbor-friends who brought home-grown tomato and cabbage plants yesterday. We scuttled back and forth awkwardly, each of us coming forward like some poorly-dressed magi bearing gifts, setting them in the driveway for the other to retrieve and then backing up to half-shout at one another over the garden fence for a few minutes. They noticed the hens scratching around the yard and asked if we had extra eggs, and I was relieved and happy to have something useful to give them, unlike a few flower plants and dandelion syrup, which are more novelty than necessity.

I’m not sure why I keep making it except that now more than ever, I have this desire to make things that can be put into jars. I suppose it’s the evolutionary gatherer instinct that responds to crisis by laying aside more things to eat, even if dandelion syrup isn’t a strictly necessary foodstuff. Then again, I keep planting flowers, too, and there’s no evolutionary explanation for that. I guess maybe we don’t have to rationalize or justify the desire for beautiful things, though perhaps we should try to cultivate our ideas of what we consider beautiful.

I’ve been taking still life photos from time to time, of my kitchen counter. The left side of the sink where I do the bulk of the kitchen work - making bread, chopping vegetables, straining tea, pouring syrup into jars, even starting seeds all happens here. I like to see what this most-used part of the house looks like from moment to moment, the subjects and light and shadows migrating throughout the day. It helps me take notice of the beauty of the mundane and humble, the things I’ve looked at a hundred times but not really seen.

The other night we worked with the donkeys on halters, trying to convince Hazel and Beau to follow the lead so that they can have their hooves trimmed with Tru in a few weeks. They consented to the halter but locked their front legs and wouldn’t take a step even with Nettie’s coaxing and so we all stood around for half an hour while Tru snorted and paced jealously in the adjoining pen. As we walked back up to the house, migrating White Pelicans flew graceful and effortlessly overhead in undulating groups of a few dozen at a time. I found myself standing still, almost holding my breath as they passed, listening to hear their wings, squinting in the dusk-light to witness their presence and being in my small square of sky, if only for a few silent moments.