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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