Sunday, July 20, 2025, 63.5* 0648
Looking like they just opened, the common evening primrose holds out yellow blossoms, another blessing this morning. Somewhere in the canopy, an Indigo Bunting joins the Sunday song with four other voices. Nothing presents the dark color of having rain. There is no dew. On a gossamer thread, a spider swings from the umbrella almost reaching me; his travels would be easier on a breeze. Does he go somewhere with intent? He wasn’t originally reaching for me, I wasn’t here.
Each day I wait to see beaver. Nothing disturbs the shrinking green water. A gnarled tree no longer measures depth for me, the land under its fallen trunk dry.
The blessings of the day do not obscure reality.
Photo: LJ Austin
