THE WILD FLOWERS WHITE

The air was humid and the sun blasted itself down upon the forest. Though a quick rain had come to the area it had not cooled anything more than a few degrees. There were not many people there because such a heat and rain had kept them at bay. It was a time to be cautious, to go slowly and stay for the most part to areas shaded yet known. Still the little white flowers, faithful to their destinies, held a blossom. The epitome of intricate and detailed, and reminded one of something from a painting or fairy tale. The snakes did not show themselves, and the frogs if they were there were not to be seen. Coyotes must have been in their dens, waiting it out like the suburban sets in air conditioned rooms or else the rural souls in pastoral fields. It was a liminal time on the paths in that much had happened previously and surely would in the future, but not then. Transitions. That sun. It overtook the shapes of clouds. How strong it was to be able to have the storm interrupt it and come back again quickly like the next wave in a sea at high tide. For all one knew, there were no constellations and the moon was a myth. Spring, autumn, winter, - all fanciful dreams had and gone, seen but then and as if forever, unseen. Summer. Summer and nothing in sight but. Mosquitoes announced themselves, that was certain, and two small butterflies flitted anxiously about. About what? About some of those kind and intricate wildflowers white and somehow untouched, inviolate, and naturally valorous. 

------------------------------------------------------