Been meaning to write more. Been needing to. Never seems to be time, never know what to say.

Storms today. Sudden flooding storms, rain so loud the radio goes mute in awe. Water down the inside of the walls in sheets, and I run to throw the tarp over our rundown camper home. The light in here now is soft blue, almost institutional feeling, but calming, too.

We've been fighting. Or not quite fighting, just edgy, just walking along each other's edges. Long days even if they're good ones and we come home hungry, tired, been together all day already and no time or space to take a full breath alone. Hard work that frankly neither of us is used to. Wind that comes up out of the north and blows the plastic off the greenhouse, snaps the lines, chills us down to bone. Or no wind and the bugs come up instead, biting hard at all our soft places.

But too we have our hands in the dirt, hard work that we love, bringing plants to life and sending them out into the world. At the end of the day we've done something. We can stand at the top of a field with our hands on our hips and look out over our work, the little sparks of green in a wide soft bed, in a wide cold world, and we put them there, grew them out from seeds, set them safe as we could make them into the soil. In a few weeks or months they'll feed us. The wind comes up and blows the hair out of my eyes, the first spray of rain on my face. I close my eyes.