The Moon of Yellow Singing

In my own native language, I would call this part of June, here where I live, The Moon of Yellow Singing.

To walk in the foothills toward sunset, the banks covered with great fountains of brilliant yellow broom, the salal blooming, the thick blackberries budded out, waiting their turn, the foxgloves and daisies just beginning to open, the brilliant yellow goldfinches zipping melodiously overhead, little crimson moths fluttering through the yellow, and everything smelling sweet, and grassy, and broomy, and rich, with the cottonwood fluff blowing through the low sunshine: this is the Moon of Yellow Singing.

As I follow the deer paths through the tall grass, and wind my way down out of the hills, and into the subdivision, and the smells of the hillside mingle with and eventually give way to the suburban smells of laundry and barbeque, I see that it might be hard to remember the Moon of Yellow Singing.  Here, among the houses and beneath the Rule of The Lawn Emperor Known as HOA, it is another time: perhaps it is the Moon of the New Sprinkler.

It is important to walk away from this.  It is also nice to come home, when the darkness falls, and find your daughter has joyfully and intently constructed a pair of shoes from packing tape, silk flowers, bows, pipecleaners, and cardboard, with attractive nerf dart soles.