First copies of Call It Madness in the Galaxy Bookshop.

After my long trip to northern New Mexico — sand and yucca, family in all its myriadness, green chili, and the sweet juniper breath of the desert night — I lean into Vermont’s lush early summer. Mostly, I keep to myself, planting my garden before this morning’s warm rain, stacking wood piece by piece, savoring the forget-me-nots that have appeared this year beneath the dwarf apple tree that is no longer any small thing. These days are a living Impressionist painting, lilac-scented pastels. In the night, my bones worn satisfyingly with hours of labor in the sun, I lie on my weather-splintered picnic table, the frogs singing, the Milky Way a celestial arc. I am not a piece in this puzzle, but a strand in the tapestry.

“Go down through the garden, dig up the radishes! Root up everything! Eat grass! Look for corn! Look for oats! Run all over! Skip and dance, jump and prance! Go down through the orchard and stroll in the woods! The world is a wonderful place.” E. B. White