Sitting at the edge of the meadow, a sleepy afternoon is seeping into my eyes. I close them for a moment. The song of the Western Wood-Pewee is a warm and dry rhythm. I hear the soft brushing of the leaves of the trees and the soothing voice of the river’s braiding currents. I catch the slight sighing sound of air pushing through the messy warp and weft of grasses in the meadow. I open my eyes to the brilliant light of the blazing sun. I am in a basin saturated with crisp yellows, vast blues, leathery greens, dusty browns, and warm grays. Sitting at the edge of the meadow, summer is soaking into my spirit.
