We meet again. If you don’t go, you won’t know.
The Boston terrier is brindled, black and white; the June meadow teems with life. Deptford pinks are tiny and spectacular, an easy-to-miss flower with a sprinkle of freckles across its petals, first met in a horse pasture decades ago. A botanical jewel. The day started with frustration and snarls, the open road called and provided the opportunity – a field being mowed, first-cut fragrant June hay. An old dairy pasture and a memory of milkweed blooms, the scent of honey blossoms from some unidentified plant. Then a long walk with dogs to work out the tangles of human interaction and an overload of useless information. Turn off, slow down, choose a path that leads to quality and riches – not things of man.
