I’ve documented
the endless wonders we’ve seen,
and what have we learned?

Spear thistle wakes up
at the base of a tree stump
as birds sing to sun.

The field is waist deep,
taller than me in some places,
rabbits in darkness.

This field remembers
every full moon this year—
steps of deer through it.

Storms come, more storms come,
sandhill crane calls fill the air,
nodding thistle bursts.

Turkeys rest in trees,
cicadas sing all day long,
bees, wild for thistle.

Purple thistle bloom
in a field of green silence
uncomplicates us.