We left berries on some nearby porches, too, just in case.

After blueberry pancakes out back, we chase them, all four of us running in circles.  Barefoot, they're on fast, sturdy limbs and I find myself wishing to catch them and hold on, a sense of urgency before their legs become longer and lankier, before their bodies don't fit on my lap.  They squeal.  I can still smell syrup in their hair.

Do boys grow faster in the summer, I wonder.  I sit and flip through a catalog, thinking maybe it's the loamy, fertilized soil their toes sank into this spring.  I stand in search of weeds, spot one, bend over to pull.  Occasionally the boys stop what they're doing, step out of their imaginary worlds.  I look up and notice at some point they've also stepped out of their shorts.  Someone wraps his arms around my legs.  Leg hugs are my favorite.

Although we visited the blueberry farm before brunch, there are days we do not ever depart from home, or even from our pajamas.  Just being in the backyard is an activity.  Andy grills meat to fill his breakfast bucket for the week, the boys build "cabins" and paint mazes and catch insects.  Something hits their collective funny bone and they sound like a pack of wild hyenas.  They tell me, though, that they are pirates, and I see their shirts attached to sticks, like flags.

Someday, I assume, they will stop shedding their attire, will stop streaking through the yard, from kiddie pool to hammock to bounce house to soccer ball to scooter.  Will stop screeching.
For now, it's fine.  With half-hearted apologies to our neighbors.
Love should be loud.  And first grade will come fast enough, forcing them back into clothes.