By Lucille Clifton
won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
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Happy Juneteenth! Paul had Tuesday afternoon off -- they always do before holidays. So after some work in the morning, we went to Kitanda for lunch, then went to the Sammamish River Trail to enjoy the gorgeous not-quite-70-degree weather and see if we could find bunnies. We did, two of them, plus a couple of herons, several sorts of ducks, some songbirds, and many mole hills. The blackberry bushes are in bloom though not producing berries yet, and the salmonberries are starting to turn red.
My Voyager group watched Drive, unmemorable except the marriage. Then we ate dinner during the end of the Orioles-Yankees game, which ended sadly for Baltimore though we were sadder to hear that Willie Mays had died. We've spent the evening bingeing the rest of Grantchester season 9 on the PBS app -- Alphy is great and I like him with Geordie, though Cathy deserves better from the show -- with a break for the penultimate Dark Matter, which is superbly acted and gripping and entirely unpredictable.
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