Tuesday, June 28, 2016


There, just before the wide fields, the line of trees. They are thick with vines, leaves affixed to bases and trunks, branches of course, and with something else. They are thick with the summer heat, the late afternoon smell of near and even distant earth from loams. Thick. There, just up the way, - a worker bee, a group of ants, - and two blue jays yell and run away into the sky. In the distant view is actually a road, - but nobody can see it until a car or old truck goes past. It’s hidden. Maybe a coyote walks round those parts at night, maybe not. A big fox was seen running up the way. But the tree and the series of trees,- guarding, watching, almost testifying to all they have seen,- in silence they watch- through the February fog where it got mild and rained, during the spring that sought to birth itself into the arms of the sun. A series of autumns, - with those new smells and the dying of summers. And the summer itself- robust, green, sprawling, presenting its wildflowers, - all its flora and fauna, its natural fortitude gained though the momentum of days and nights, - its everything, - it’s self, - and open secret for all to see. 


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