It’s 105° as I march up the dusty hill to the chickens’ ark and deliver their apple core pieces. They jump about in ecstasy, seeming blissfully unaware of the heat. I check their hutch door—none, not yet. Too hot to lay eggs, too much trouble. A pheasant croaks nearby; I see him next door: not too clever, he’s in our neighbor’s dog pen. But the handsome, crackle-voiced fellow is not as dumb as he looks. It’s too hot for dogs to be out.
An ambitious rabbitbrush already blooms. Praise God for his promises he always keeps. Like seasons in their turn. Like Fall.