After the day filling up syrup feeders, hammering lids, and swinging buckets onto the flat bed, I was done for.  I’ve never been much of a night owl, and motherhood and beekeeping haven’t exactly increased my ability to stay up late.  So I took myself and my book to bed about 8:30 p.m.  I read for a while and then glanced at the clock.

9:25 p.m.

I looked out of the window that sits over my bed.

Yes, 9:25 p.m.

I thought about throwing back the covers, rousing Honeydew from the NBA playoffs, grabbing the frisbee.

But instead I cracked the window, letting the dandelion pollen and the bluejays’ bickering drift in on the breeze.  I closed my eyes against the fading sun and thought about the coming solstice, the coming July-in-Montana, the coming backbreaking, sticky work of harvest.

I thought of all the winter nights spent poring over seed catalogues, The Climber’s Guide to Glacier, the Patagonia spring collection, and I again considered heading outside to celebrate the lingering light.

But while I debated, all the hours I had already spent outside in those life giving rays must have caught up with me, and I dreamt of the red saddle between Mt. Altyn and Mt. Henkel, of fresh honey dripping from the comb, of peach ice cream right out of the churn.  I woke up and knew, as I’ve known every June I’ve paid Montana taxes, that every moment of the black hole depths of winter solstice was worth it.

Welcome, June.

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