I’ve been walking from house to gate nearly every day for twenty years. That third of a mile each way is the same and different. The halfway point on the gravel road is a natural spring that flows 365 days a year. The spring originates just slightly east of the low point in the driveway, flows under the road via a culvert, and then flows west until it merges with a marvelous swamp.
I tell the seasons by what vegetation is waxing or waning along the road. In late June, the fox grapes (scuppernongs) are ripening and the American Beautyberries have put on tiny, grapelike clusters that presage Fall.
All sorts of mushrooms push their way through the loamy forest floor and I marvel at their many incarnations.
A variant of what must be a white slime mold catches my eye. It is draped over an embankment and very nearly looks like a mask covering a human face. Do you not see the eyes, the mouth?
At seven this morning, the air was laden with moisture; the temperature was already in the mid-eighties. Strangely, the heat and humidity were almost a sensual pleasure, and the strong French Roast coffee beans that I had ground and left to brew while Lou Lou Belle and I walked were just that, no question.