Because of the late, cold wet spring the fruit of greenness is sud- denly upon us so that in Montana you can throw yourself down just about anywhere on a green grassy bed, snooze on the riverbank and wake to a yellow-rumped warbler flittering close to your head then sipping a little standing water from a moose track. Of course pitch- ing yourself downward you first look for hidden rocks. Nothing in nature is exactly suited to us. Meanwhile everywhere cows are nap- ping from overeating, and their frolicsome calves don't remember anything except this bounty. And tonight the calves will stare at the full moon glistening off the mountain snow, both snow and moon white as their mother's milk. This year the moisture has made the peonies outside my studio so heavy with their beauty that they
droop to the ground and I think of my early love, Emily Brontë. The cruelty of our different ages kept us apart. I tie and prop up the peo- nies to prolong their lives, just as I would have nursed Emily so she could see another spring.