out among the birches, out among cousin and second cousin poplars, columnar
conversation, wind endlessly interrupting. Birches having a high old time, so many
relatives to draw on, so many black birds calling from the creek, so many star-
lings, after all, it�s June.

high time the show got on the road, undid January damage, renounced all-smoth-
ering February, despite its thaws; time to erase March dark corners, its drop-dead
silence, the swallowing of family stories.

green deserves its turn. After April-May rejuvenation, high time for trees to talk a
blue streak, a mile a minute, strum country funk, snap a few dry twigs, harangue
any upstart shoots trying hard to muscle in.

so much sky to attend to. Come June, every branch and bug upon it flirts with the
sun, desperate as brides in old movies to hold their grooms. Sun�s already moving
south, anticipating lusher limbs, hickory. magolias, already rushing to embrace
richer blossoms, thicker groves of oak; history on their side.

one moonless night June will flee under cover, quicker than she came -- as if the
poplars wouldn�t notice, as if the birches would ever stand still for it, as if they all
won�t weep and wail and gossip, straight through July.

Myrna Garanis
Copyright � 2003