July 9, 2021

Untitled photo

When the gun went off in mid-May signaling the annual start of the Great Race from the deep coma of winter to the A-fib pounding wokeness of spring, I was, as I usually am by that time of year when unending cold fronts pile on like sumos, pessimistic that the earth had anything left in it. It seemed drained of all life, soaking in the hazy formaldehyde of late winter. And then there’s that glorious first warm day and the crowded start line erupts like a dormant volcano. About this time every July, head spinning and feeling wobbly from the bursting of life that just keeps coming until every plant has leafed out, every flower has blossomed, every animal has given birth and every egg has hatched, I find myself taking a knee (or two) to catch my breath. For the past 40 years, these dependable fireweeds have signaled the bounteous pinnacle of summer, the last food station before the finish line.