WILDFLOWERS AND OTHER

Nobody there. Nobody there save for some truck that parked near a small path after. But for then, nobody there. Majestic woodlands. There is a break in the rain. The wildflowers have risen and want to know the sun, have to know the light. Upon closer looking, there are, in many of them, insects peculiar and small hiding in the stems, the flowers, the everything. Orange ones, ones of different colors. Odd and some seem nice but others slightly off and still others ugly. No worry. The fields are large and some bird like a quail is startled and runs to the sky,- pretty, somehow colorful, above all succinct for its shape and aptitude at sudden flight. There is goes in a bee line to the other direction, - and it’s against globs of unformed clouds that have matched themselves with one another across the entire sky. Save for the bit where the sun comes through. Yes, - wildflowers underneath. The others are they a bit wilted or is it my imagination/projection. Something startles in the distance. I have gone far and wide before and shall again. The paths there are wide, the frogs jump around, and it’s wet, wet, and wet. The flowers are purple and white, - a type of clover, and there are also white and yellow ones. I have a field guide purchased, but haven’t used it much, - keep forgetting to bring it along. No worries. The days are many. It’s the rainiest season ever. The streams, the little streams are overflowing here and there and the grasses, weeds, so forth,- incredibly long,- three times or even four of their normal size,- from seasons past. Soon we are at the furthest part. I think, - there must be a great quietness there, and I stop, stand still. There is. We proceed. The farm is in the distance, and there is a feed corn field. Some black birds fly overhead. A garden variety way, - for the wild things anyhow. Nest, snake, and fly. Sky, ground, and canine. Shoes, inner and outer music, and words. Jeans, shirt, sweater, and the lightest of gear if any such as key, camera. Nobody there. Nobody but us. Stop one more time. Because you can. Change tenses, change directions, change points of view, change flowers, change words, change pictures. Switch things around. But keep the stillness and keep always the jubilant bright colors of the feral flowers that live.


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