Soon

It's ten degrees and she's belly exposed, kneeling in grass that would itch me to hives.

The incandescence of the sun has pulled away beyond the horizon and the currawongs loop and cycle their song to welcome in blue hour. The forest we're in is now scraped clean of any heat and the photographer is the only glow of action. They're capturing women's business. A kind of pilgrimage that I only have second-hand information about. It follows on maps of little kicks and hiccups, aching backs, and being stretched to a shine.

“She is ripe with life in the meadow surrounded by nibbling swarms–invoking the earth mother–melancholic over her future transaction for when her womb will be silent again. ”

Our photographer's best attempt to capture this season––the upcoming harvest––is something that I never considered to be of significance. I will never understand the sacredness of pregnancy because I belong to the species of linear, predictable, easily defined creatures. But to be the vessel of creation? To be charted along a course by your own body? The camera's shutter continues to crack the settling cold. She’s powered by the warmth of two hearts in one body. I want to say I'm ready for this again but I never will be. She may be though.