June is a song I don’t really know the words to but am singing along with anyway. One verse tells of small yellow warblers calling, Witchity-witchity-witch, and garishly plumed western tanagers up from Mexico to feast on just-hatched salmon flies crawling drowsily through bankside willows. There’s a verse about a young bull moose, too, modest antlers still in velvet, chewing cress by the river road each day, and something about a black bear dragging a trash bag through the preschool parking lot. In another verse the mountain sky dumps barrels of snow so heavy the green branches snap, and in the next the sun comes out to shine on wet asphalt that glitters so brightly you have to pull your truck over beside a high meadow, from which a meadowlark sings: I am the god of summer resurrected, come to salvage your soul from the snows.