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.
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