When June Comes!

Phoebe drowning in honeysuckle. Photo by her daddy, Bill Thompson III.


But when June comes
Rench my throat in wild honey and whoop out loud!
Spread them shadders anywhere
I'll get down and waller there

from "When June Comes" by James Whitcomb Riley, the "Hoosier Poet."

My father's favorite poem. Aw, I'm bawling again. That's no way to start a post.


Long shadders, leaf shadders.



When June comes, I get to go out in the meadow with my dog.



I get to open bluebird boxes and find one all full of little gray bluebird girls.


And one all stuffed full of chickadee.




I can look out the window and see a newly minted bluebird contemplating her world.




Or see an indigo bunting sharing a bath with a cardinal.


And not sharing it with a phoebe.


Dear Mrs. Passerina,

Your son does not always play well with others. Please speak to him about sharing.

June is overwhelming. I love it so much. I just wish I could take some of this bounty and spread it out through the rest of the year, that's all. I wish June lasted three or four months, so I could take it all in. But everyone's in a hurry, everyone's nesting, everyone's blooming, everyone's singing, and I can't keep up. I just grab little bouquets as I go.