A strange time of year, it’s eighty-three

degrees, feels like it’s over a hundred.
Ticks become track-stars, athletes that run
fast then bite hard and sharp, they suck. 
            Wakened ticks can smell
                   Carbon dioxide
               hang on for dear life
 Whats missing now is the slow crawl that
alerts your defensive dance. No, now it’s 
a quick stab somewhere and a scrambled
 Having become accustomed to the length
of winter days, work now ends after eight,
it’s two hours past bedtime by the time the
dishes are all rinsed, loaded and running.
 Yesterday was the first carry-water day of
this year for the delicate redwoods.
              From this old iron pipe
         silver thread of clear water
              doe tracks in the mud
 Sequoia, there are more still in pots but
the forest has surrendered to summer
already. Loamy clay has given it’s nature
to the cracked mud, and woven hardwood
              The name Sequoyah
       Cherokee word for sparrow
             small newly feathered 
 There are nine that didn’t make it into the
ground here yet and probably will not.
They will make excellent Christmas trees.
I don’t feel like digging holes in dry copper-
head colored leaves.