A walk in the gloaming, picking my first daisy of the season, crawling into the ditch after the cars are gone to say "Hello, my friend, I've waited for you" to the king devil hawkweed, the one they can never poison, rip out, or burn. She's that defiant. That strong. That beautiful. That equipped for humble greatness. That inclined to take up space. And then the first red clover and then his smaller, white sisters. The first bramble rose, the size of my fingernail, exhaling her sweet soul by the side of the road. The wild garlic pompoms near the abandoned house. The nook of shadowy,
ghost-filled green before the moon's entrance. The hour of old friends meeting again,
old friends with medicine, magic, and truth
if we stop to listen by the wayside and worn-out places.
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