In the late afternoon, I listen to public radio and move firewood from the outside stacks into the barn, where it will dry again all summer until the autumn nights when I gather my kindling and birchbark. On Monday, the wood delivery guy will come again, with a load of green wood to dry all summer in the open air. Lord, I think as I stack, let the sun shine this summer.

When my daughter appears, I pull off my leather gloves, and we sit on the steps, talking about the Trump verdict. A hummingbird darts between us, onyx and ruby. Later, I’m driving north in the narrow Black River valley to hear GennaRose Nethercott read in the gorgeous old East Craftsbury church. In the parking lot, I join a few friends, talking talking about the verdict, another of these moments with a historic tinge. Crows peck in the farm field behind the church freshly harrowed up. The end-of-May evening is rich with a mixture of cow manure and lilac. Vermont loveliness.

19 years ago, my youngest was born. She fit perfectly in my arm, snuggled from my elbow to fingertips. I kept thinking, How is this possible?

A few days after she was born, the season’s first nubs of corn emerged through farm fields. To bring this child into the world, I had been cut and sewn by strangers. Here we were, our tiny family, a few days later, passing these fields on our way home from the hospital, me marveling at the season already passing from spring into summer, this six-pound baby miraculously given to us. 19 years later, when I return home in the dusky evening, we drink tea and eat almonds, talking talking, this great big world crammed full with so many things…. Enough said. For this day, our immense unfathomable luck.