Morning in those fields is the prickled fur of a fox weaving through thickets, or a raccoon, or the mussed pelt of a deer
A tumble-rush, whitewater roar, the river races, mad as its name, over cobble and ledge. Kingfisher rattling overhead, I wander a jumble of boulders
He had asked and in reply— swallowtail, joe-pye weed, balloon flower, skipper —the boy recalls a beach where his father is teaching the perfection