“There can be but one teacher – nature. She must always be consulted.” - Camille Pissarro I’m wondering how best to preserve this day when I find myself summoned outside into the warming light, tossing my net beyond the low islands and the jagged edge of the Sound, hoping its threads return in gilded attire, yielding a tangle of blessings culled from both sea and hollow that are a mix of old-growth splendor and the commonplace, while I fall back to silence, watching the way the morning light breaks apart and is then quickly redrawn by wind gusts that blur and wrinkle the surface of the water, and entranced by the soft rustling of the beach grass and taste the tang of salt-scented air while white-capped tides are suffused with the same mussel-blue hue as the open fist of sky and seeing how both air and water are stitched together by these clamorous gulls rising in rapture then swooning towards shore and asking what more can be done other than to try and somehow slow earth’s hurry and call summer back. ————————————– John Muro called us from Glastonbury, CT. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems