I lay at the top of the field and observe the layers in the meadow: first, the smell of the clover, then the sweet buzz of honeybees. They fly under the summer wind, which is the next layer. It carries the small things: a gnat, a butterfly, perhaps a lacewing... there are enough grass daisies here. And above these the dragonflies, arial wolves that they are. They are huge and they weave a glittering grid over the field. They are predacious and lustful because it is July.
Above the dragonflies, the violet tree swallows. Their pattern is larger- giant, graceful swoops of their sharp wings, their trailing forked tails. They write in cursive. And then, above the swallows, so high, a single Osprey wobbles into view. It is joined by two, steadier ones. They are a family, the parents leading and following and flying their own patterns as the year progresses. My son is away from me for two weeks while he visits family with his dad in Minnesota. There is freedom in this, and aching grief too. Down at the bottom of the meadow, a maple leaf falls. This moment, high summer: Slow, empty, full. Over in a heartbeat.