Summer is crashing to fruition, sere persistent wind unnerving. Cherries are pitted, in the freezer; deer seek food inside the fence.
News is over, nothing much about the High Park fire. Jo’s here from Gold Hill; her house was surrounded by the Four Mile fire and survived. Half her garden burned and half withered. This High Park fire has her empathy stirred up.
Starting with the bees, they seem pleased, as usual. Long hot days let them play out late. Five to one coming in, I’d guess. Daylilies glow in late sun. It is the next longest day in the year. Darkness creeps incrementally into our lives. Dogs howl the announcement, someone is haying; there is an unknown grumbling in the field southwest of the trees. The tractor mows concentric squares.
From the front gate, after ascertaining the noise was no threat, we all three walk north toward the plum bed at the head of the berm, which has evolved itself nicely after an initial planting years ago. Salvia, ricegrass, lavender cotton thrive, blue fescue, perennial sunflower with enough water doesn’t look so ratty, rogue russian sage sprigs spring up in a wide random spread.
The spring bed has lasted well into summer, unto solstice, with plenty of supplemental snowmelt. Colors and textures expand and interweave.