Summer is a time that is infective in it’s presence. That deliriously exhilarating stench of pervasive fetid fecundity rocks me to me heels. Time stands on still. Some breath of a breeze carries the miasma of life . My lungs fill. My nose absorbs the cloud of bits and pieces of everything alive and breathing. Every Goldenrod Blackberry Sassafras Turk’s Cap Monkey Flower is flinging the very essence of their being into this wind. Hoping, against the odds of seemingly improbable odds, seeking to attract another. Begging yearning shrieking into void. SOME ONE FIND ME.! We’ve gotta git busy. There’s things need doin before the snow blows. The Flicker Groundhog Fox Fly Newt Grosbeak Bear Human make these same pleas to the wind. And there I stand, swimming in the sweltering viscous fug of a hot dry August. While Mantis Borer Mosquito Hornet Honey Bee zip and zoom about their obscure missions to achieve these same ends. Time hangs. The breeze dies away. The black soup mire under the reeds gently lifts and gut wrenching sniff of raw death. The sweat rolling down my nose. Falling to my boot tip with a splat. Not a cloud in a sky as blue as dreams. Helios’ steeds puking smoke and flame as they describe their arc across the heavens. My skin prickles and the sweat plays pachinko with my hair follicles. The hair burned white against my skin. I feel the Earth moving beneath my feet. This is alive. We are alive. We are all in this together. I can be standing in an ally in Baltimore or the field across the street and that same sense of HERE can be felt. Just around the corner from the rattle buzz hustle push of CITY, swimming in the Dumpster leachate, burrowed into the residue of intention is Life. The same life. All a part of The Dream call Today. Standing in a field or deep in the woods atop a mountain allows for a more simplified experience in access only. There is usually nothing to drown out at 8800′ besides the voices clamoring in my head. The alley is awash with every bit of human existence to nudge and drag my eyes from the Chicory blossoms around the telephone pole. Distraction from what is most vital to our existence seems to be the point of City. Of Civilization. The more we live ,closer and closer together, soon in our tiny houses stacked like Lego’s, the easier it will be to not notice. Not that it’s all that hard to not notice now. Breaking News: It’s Unsafe in Them There Hills!! Be afraid of ticks mosquitos rabid raccoons falling Ash trees. Stay in your homes and remain calm. Life is out to kill us all. And it will succeed. The life we live while Life is working at taking the Miracle back, can be spent with these moments of Solitude, strung like pearls along the Timeline of Life, as Oases of Calm amidst the Desert of Consensus reality. Being fully present and in the moment with bated breath allows my heart a chance to catch up to the rest of me. Silently standing in the presence of the Sacred. Humbled by it’s enormity. Forever fleeting. I cherish these times. Their value more than all the gold in the world could offer. To feel the drone of Cicada Katydid Cricket Grasshopper can set my bones to vibrate. These ephemeral instances avalanche through me. Feeding my lust for Being. If I could roar like the Niagara or wail like a Bitterroot gale, I could never express what I hold in those moments. Such simple moments. Snapshots in my mind’s eye of Yesterday’s Yesterday feed my Fire when the frigid wind of mediocrity abrades my cheek and assaults my everything. When the convoluted Societal Pressures meet the crazy-making paradigm of my Now, I have hot summer days like this one to remind me what matters most. Not the chitterlings of naked apes or the bright flashy colors and sounds of the latest latest. Zipper Jackets and Iphonepads offer less than access to anything. It’s the sittings and lookings and feelings and hearings that offer meaning. It’s in these sensations that the Face of God can be discerned. The Voice of the Spirit, in deafening silence and chaotic stillness, this is the food that feeds my soul. In these moments, my own personal ionosphere draws the energy that flows through everything that is and ever was will be. An argument about TrumpClintonPutinSaakashviliDuvalier only draws from that reserve. There is no reward in winning an argument that equals hearing a Pileated Woodpecker burrowing towards ants in a Cherry tree. We squeak and gibber at each other, vainly attempting to discern meaning from the gesticulation and ululations. Oblivious to the song of Phoebe and the creaking of crossed limbs, I am all too guilty of misapreciation and disunderstanding. These are lonely times, hollow of meaning and texture. I defy Confucius’s proclamation that there is no portent in the Bird on the wing or the leaf on the tree. There is meaning in the blade of grass that is all to obscure for a simple mind like mine to grasp. So if I can’t understand a blade of grass, how am I to discern clarity in the onslaught of Modernity?