August Apple aphids attack my cherry tree, but I am back to some semblance of a writing schedule. We work in shifts, my husband and I. He takes mornings; I am afternoons. I pick blueberries with the baby strapped to my chest, and the lines come to me. Sometimes, if I am lucky, I will remember them when I sit down to write later that day. Mostly, they remain snagged and tangled on the berry branch.
