As I sit at my desk, I can hear the summer rustle of the new leaves as a soft wind blows through them. The leaves are nearly full size, and in a month they went from the red fringe of delicate flowers to yellow to a soft green and now to the deeper green of maturity.
Being of a fanciful nature, I usually stop to listen when the leaves rustle. It seems to me that they are talking, and if I listen hard enough, I will understand what they are saying as they tell the story of trees and woods and animals.
There are other stories around the yard in late spring.
Of lilies of the valley,
of unfurling hosta leaves,
of chives ready to bloom,
of a little kingdom through the metal circle.
But there are other things to think about, too, and nowhere near as pleasant as the beauty of spring. Recently there was yet another brutal murder of a black man in police custody. In response, there have been protests. And riots. Once more, the lid flies off the pot because the pressure has become unbearable.
2020 seems to be the year that keeps giving. Or taking, depending on your point of view.
Pardon me for the shift in tone, from rustling leaves to the murder of a man.
But there it all is, the sublime and the abominable.
I can’t look away from either.