It was early in the morning on the last day of July — yesterday, in fact — that I noticed the scent of dried and drying grasses in the air, of ripening and spent seed — that distinct valley smell, leavened by dew and blent with the dust of harvested fields.
That same day, a few hours later, we decided that the unidentified seedling in our cedar-and-juniper wilderness might well be a silk tree, or Mimosa, because its leaves meet the description, and what looks like it will be a blossom is now forming in its crown.
This time of year, thoughts are like raindrops. Wherever they fall, memory’s the sound.
August 1, 2020. Afternoon.
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