Cicadas are singing again, here in the edge-of-wild suburban ecosystem where I live. The thunderstorms are wild. Breezes are more water than air. Heat lays in visible-to-the-eye curves over soft hills and valleys.
In the northern hemisphere, summer is nearing her mid-point.
The ferocious growth rush of spring and early summer is settling into a long, lazy wander toward full fruiting and harvest.
In response to nature’s signals, I can feel lulling energy pulling at me. Thoughts curl in lazy spirals. Doing has less meaning. Being centers itself in my awareness.