Yesterday afternoon, I spent an hour or so wandering around the
lower half of my property. Mostly, I
inspected the creek. A beaver has been
at work on my section of the stream.
Some of the holes and mini ponds created by the beaver are quite
impressive. At one bend in the creek,
the water levels have risen enough the make the nearby banks of grass and
meadow rue very spongy—like you are walking on pillows. The ground was so soft, I was able to simply knock
down a short length of legacy fence to nowhere that I have never really appreciated.
I left the creek shortly after that and walked along the road. There, I found myself strobing between shade
and light as I walked along through lodgepole pine forest. I particularly enjoy that sensation for some
reason. And it was along that part of my
walk where I stopped and talked to a single wild rose blossom alongside the
road.
“Look at you,” I said to the rose blossom. “You are screaming color at me.”
I have posted a photograph of the rose. I’m sure you will agree it is screaming.
—Mitchell Hegman
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