Fallen on the sidewalk beneath my feet, what remains of early June's glory, blossoms dropped from bursting seeds and leaves full-grown into bravery.
I've driven by this way before. I've driven by every morning for the past two weeks.
But today I am walking home from work.
And I have never been this way before.
There is a creek beside the road. I didn't know. It is a home to a patchwork quilt of little fish. Dark drops against the hazy brown of water from the earth. Somehow they know I am here, and swim away.
There is purple clover in the grass at the field's edge. It draws its warm color against the cool green and plays harmony. It grows as though it loves to know it sees me when I am unaware. Whether or not I know it's there, it grows, and looks and smells as beautiful as ever.
There is a nest of oriels in the maple tree on the corner. The mother brings her fidelity back in her winnings, winging black and orange across the slate-blue sky. Undisturbed and undisturbing, they live their life out over my head, their world the field I drive by and leave behind.
And there are ruts in the farmer's driveway, and daisies in the ditch, and the frogs in the lake behind the hill are singing a chorus of something that gets stuck in my head in a way all its own--a way my language could never get stuck and stay.
Today I am walking home.
For half an hour, the unpretentious earth beneath my feet. My world and I meet, face to face, and smile.