Talking to Myself Twenty-Five

Judy beside blue hydrangea bush June 2019 by Doug Williams

Talking to Myself Twenty-Five June 7, 2020

The flowers continue. Daylilies in front.
No one deadheads them. The blue
hydrangeas emerge rapidly. They love
all the rain. Once it dried a little, the
backyard hens go back to their nest
in the flower garden, among the small
spreading sunflowers aiming for the
sky. So many holes in my fences,
and the hens hop into my garden
and then take over the backyard. They
sleep in the dog house Wag rejected,
lay eggs among the bicycles, and who 
knows where else. Grape vines cover
the fencing that keeps hawks out of
the run. Once Tim killed a water
mocassin that had pursued a vole
into the coop. Tim gets out my mower, 
running but not fast enough. Finally,
he figures out that it’s the idler and
borrows a “big paperclip.” Then he
mows both front and backyards.
Janet has been digging out the deep,
thick roots of a wild grass, where we
want to plant big zinnias–all colors--
and cosmos called Sensation–pinks,
whites, lavender. William says he’ll
mend the fence. My next mystery
novel arrives in the mail two days
early. A poetry book review comes 
by email–one I didn’t know about.  
The hens lay lavish numbers of eggs.
In the corner where I have my Russian 
paintings and my Finnish poster of 

glacier-carved islands, I am at home.