This year cicadas sing, and
their tune echoes in all these hollows as
they fly between trees on a quest for
what comes next.

I heard a couple whippoorwills and
a bobwhite the other night,
watched a timberdoodle cross the road,
and a giant pileated woodpecker
claim a tree on my path.

Chicory blooms along roadsides,
vibrant indigo against the greenery,
daisies dot fields, and the peach trees
hold hundreds of small, fuzzy fruits.

Inky caps pop up on abandoned hay
bales in clusters of untouched decay.
Soon chanterelles will weave between roots
through the woods and black trumpets
will peak from leaf litter, and I will watch for
them to add a little zest to my meals.

This year, I am trying harder to see
these hopeful signs at least
twice as often as I watch the news.