Summer is alive with transition. We push our fingers into wet warming soil, carefully dropping tiny seeds. Watch as the first early summer shoots rise from the ground. Wait with anticipation as we tend with trepidation, fearing hail, marauders, weeding, supporting, watering, feeding. And, finally, late summer we reap. Grateful for the bounty bestowed.
The rhythm of the season, like the pacing of feet or a song of words, a steady progression yet filled with hesitation, tumbling, skipping, harmonics.
I find a small square house in a field. The building is painted on all exterior walls with an upside down view of the surroundings. At first glance I think I’ve found an electrical or outbuilding cleverly disguised.