The wildflowers are at their peak, a lacy profusion of petals, happy faces, feathery leaves and a finale of dancing butterflies sewing the design of next year's arrangement.
The air is sweet and thick at high noon, with honey-hay breezes anointed by evaporating river mist. The water has taken good care of the plants, and as I wade carefully down the current, I can brush my fingertips along the flowering vervain. I crush a little watermint and inhale it's beatific scent deep into my lungs and belly. The cool ripples float along my calves as I step in between slippery rocks. All around me there is bounty; canopies of grape leaves, frosty thickets of young willows, sassy bull thistle, and half eaten boneset patches. Many creatures have stepped along this mud before me.
I will ask the plants and pray to the river.