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  • Early Wonder Peas, aptly named. Tendrilly and delicate, yet strong, determined. On the eve of the March full moon I carefully placed the seeds in cold soil, patted them down gently, and hoped for the best. In just 55 days they will grow 5 feet or more to reach maturity, be pop-in-my-mouth ready for harvest. In other words, they will be ready two moons from now.

    I like this measurement of time - moons as opposed to months. Months have thirty days or so, a series of small increments in which to procrastinate or dither away. A moon is singular - just one full moon per month. That sounds rather special, doesn't it? An occasion not to miss! Something worth planning for, worth celebrating.

    Last summer I tried three times – three moons – to get a picture of the full moon in all her voluptuous glory. I only semi-succeeded. One of the photos was decent I suppose, the clouds were intriguing, but nothing compared to the actual experience: sitting outside alone at 3am thinking solitary thoughts without distraction, asking questions I know can’t be answered. Listening to bullfrogs croak awkwardly beautiful songs, watching the blink-blinkblink-blink of june bugs. To just sit there, calmly contemplating the arc of my own time on earth, fecundity and kismet on a sultry summer night.

    Who else is out there, now, thinking similar thoughts?
    Will we ever cross paths?
    What’s next on my horizon, universe?
    How much time do I have left before becoming food, sustenance for something else?
    What do I need to know or do now?
    What is urgent?
    What should I abandon?
    ...you are not going to answer me, are you?

    Blink-blink-blinkblink-blink answered the june bugs, while the worms slumbered and the peas inched stealthily upward toward the cool embrace of moonlight.
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