On two days this past week the temperature never made it out of the 50's. In the valleys a cold rain fell, while up in the mountains came snow - closing for a time the road to Yellowstone. The foothills are starting to turn brown, as they always do this time of year, but more slowly, reluctantly, as the cool, wet days keep spurring new flushes of green.
This is the time when the feet of the aspen are cradled by lavender-colored lupine flowers, as well as the scarlet blooms of paintbrush. The time when wild roses along the creek are fully open, their scent easy to detect in the cool hours of morning. The time when cottonwood seeds are floating everywhere, up and down and sideways, like a million feathers cast down from the clouds.
The sun is drifting south, of course, summer leaving us by degrees. By that's of no concern. Things are still being planted. Things are growing. The mountains are letting out breath.