Summer Notes

As I wander in a glacial valley on an old dirt road, the Fireweed was alive in burning pinks along its sides. Here, long rows become a forest of flowers for the bees. And in the stillness, the sounds of insects fill the air in the closing Summer days, spinning out the final hours in the heat. My eyes roam down the corridors of pink, glide across the silvery lakes, until I reach the furthest distance where the blues materialize. They form in shapes above the water courses, in places dimly known. Nearby, a giant hill of rock stands between an opening, broken with all sides steep, and serves as the keeper of the gate. And along the bordered sides of glacial ice that lay beyond, and upon the valley floor beneath, are more tints of painted pinks. The sharpened cuts and terraced sides blaze bright. But still, I wonder why such thoughts live inside this scene, and have connected with everything. Have other eyes found the same pathways as mine or felt the same as me? Maybe, but this much I know, as the light fades, that one can't ignore the music and its notes, or a song of ten-thousand years.