Meridian

Hot dog Buns

First day of Summer arrives bittersweet, for it marks the beginning of dwindling hours of daylight, until the solstice reaches its low, its demise, if you will, the blackout which signifies winter’s begin.

First day of Winter, hopeful.  Days getting longer.  First Day of Summer, full of regret over time wasted.

“After 30 years he’s finally listened to us old timers who have been stewards of the land. Cattle create holes around the creeks and ponds. The garter snake and red-legged frog love these holes. Cattle also graze the hillsides and woods, providing a fire danger defense.”

The land itself and the native animals.  Not the horses and the land.  Not the houses, shops and streets of the land, but the very insects which inhabit the land.

You only see flies.  Houseflies.  Occasionally, a butterfly.  An orange and black Monarch.

We have way more than that.  We have miniature, micro-micro, green irridescent little bugs with wings.  They mystify and I am bewitched upon their landing on my arm, or knee.  I watch them, do not brush them away, like I would a common housefly.  I watch them and consider a relationship with them.  They’re as supposed to be here, as am I.

But it’s Summer now.  We’ve rolled past the line.  From now on, treasure every moment you got.  Got with the sunshine.  Got with the hills.  Got with the hawks, quail, and the silly little airplanes from over the hill.  The flight path runs overhead, out in this paradise.  Those sunny calm days that you also love so much, are interrupted by the little airplanes, buzzing overhead.

During these interrupts.  These blights on the landscape, you will make lists of things to complete while in society.  In – Out.  That’s the objective.  Upon that list, you write, “Hot dog Buns.”

It’s Summer.  The bbq should be fired each night.  Out on the coast.  Onshore breeze, warmed by 3 ridges and 2 canyons.  Scents of tall golden grasses, chaparral, sage and creeks.  Reaches you salty.

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