By the end of next week there may be a shift in the weather. I lean toward the possibility of cold front, frost, possible snow in the high mountains. I look for shimmerings. I savor the stories of nurturing. I sip the news from my sister to the North. She tended the burned feet of lamas and a mule who survived the Caribou fire. It is good to know they received her kindness and care.
Today I walked in the opaque shroud that fills the forest. The ridge lines are transformed by diffused light. The smoke has a presence and weight stripping the colors from the landscape and flattening the vibrance of the sky.
I kneeled down to photograph the tattered remains of a paper wasp nest created from old dead wood mixed with wasp saliva. The silver strands hold a welcome brightness.
Hoping for rain.