June Walk at Valley Forge

Milkweed, thistlefield, sunscenting flowers,

blackbird screaming at a hawk in the eggshell blue,

my legs sturdy,

soaked in rain grass and grain chaff,

striding straight as the deer runs,

ticks be damned,

small as a vole under tall sky and sailing clouds,

my own back to myself,

whoever I am self:

not much matters but the sweet air.