MUSHROOM DANDELION PINECONE WILDFLOWER

Hot there and the sun is on the run over the sky it arcs but wait, - it seems to have stopped. The paths are strewn with interesting leaves and even the shapes the shadows make on the dirt paths can make one pause and look. It’s a Rorschach world perhaps. Clouds are castles and tree bark is a door to another world. Or is it? Do things mean something? Perhaps it’s a combination. There was no shaman or seer there hiding in the thicket, so I took the job and read the sky and earth and little stream. Though, I must say, the stream, a small one, I was surprised when I finally arrived at it- to find it dried up! - Such was the heat of the sun for those hours. So we were careful and cautious and went slow. What would Malcolm Lowry think of it all? Or Conrad? Or any of the others? Who is to know? What would they see in the bright sun? Maybe their ghosts were around, maybe not. There was an impossibly large mushroom hiding just a few feet in on one of the paths. How I missed it before I do not know. It was when I asked for a sign or vision that my sight was drawn to it. Its print reminded me of a leopard somewhat but not exactly. It was in its structure completely unhampered and unblemished. Awe and wonder at such a site. 

There were also the dandelions. Now they are a curious bunch and get a bad rap. Look at

how they have bits that travel through the air, - trying to survive. The stems sway over just a little bit in some invisible breeze that visits. Green. The white structure itself dazzles. Delightful. They are in the hundreds and nobody walks past there or hardly any soul. Maybe they talk to themselves. Over a long way is a series of wooden fences, and the other way more forest. Yet, in another direction is a muddy swamp-like area, - bog, and far from there but in the same direction you can see the old farmer’s house and barn. What dreams does an old farmer long retired from his plow and the rest, have? Does he dream a dandelion dream where the white bits break away and travel up to the sky, farther, farther still, blending, leaving, and becoming free? Do dandelions become enlightened and achieve moksha. Awakening, nirvana? Do they get off the wheel of birth and death? Whatever they are, see them against the green grasses that grow in the early summer warmth, - the life giving star overhead.

Trees have fallen over and the Pine Cones are there with the brown bits and the old branches. It’s probably from a storm. To see the storm at night would be something. Even the coyotes probably hide. The dogs chased a coyote yesterday clear across the forest. I think the coyotes are too fast, blended, naturally and instinctually clever. They run past the stream, the valley, and one thousand wild pine cones in the sun and shade. A family of pine cones waits there by the place at the perimeter where the openness meets the wild Birches. The luridness of cities gone, the whole atmosphere pure if not perfect, and a bumble bee buzzes past looking for something…

Green. Green and green. Green and green and green.

The leaves and stems of the wild flowers and other. It’s dizzy how the little white flowers line up next to one another in light and shade- along the ways in all directions. N., NE, W, SW, SSW, NNE. so on. They are indiscriminate and free. Just when you think there are none, there are some! - And others also- red, pink, tiny blue with yellow bits. They come from trees and the ground and the little rocks and from the bases of old tree trunks along the way. They open up; bend outwards, blossom and smile. They come to let the sunlight kiss the petals in the silent and secreted forest worlds…

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