Walking near dead grass, dust from the trail speaks a language of ages. Sage and buckwheat shout the joy of summer’s calling. This year, it will be short, but splendor will splash the air.
Bees frantically work, supporting the hive. Descending into enchanted realms. Local universes. Do they worry or fret? Counting flowers and days without rain.
Those things, considered “dead.” Speak loudest of all. About days gone by. Three weeks of glory for some. Others, like the oak, masters of maternal care. Spent years of reliable service. Never wavering. Strong, sure and fast. Shading rabbit and coyote alike. Their roots, were once alive with the harmonics of the beating heart called earth. Now waiting patiently. For rebirth.
Had to do a little impression work yesterday. Photos are edited for contrast. Russian 44-2 Modified Lens.