An Easterner especially, who would scorn the meagerness of our summer, the dry twisted shapes of sycamores, oaks, and chaparral, a landscape August has already drained of green. Would not understand one who will be filled with pleasure to walk over the clinging thistle, foxtails, brown grasses knowing everything was just waiting for rain and not dead. They are unable to conceive that these trees and sparse brown bushes were alive.
And hate the bright stillness of the noon without wind, without motion, the only other living thing a hawk, or an osprey suspended in the blinding, sunlit blue. – the skyline of a hill broken by no more trees than one can count.
And yet how gentle and loving it appears to one raised in this landscape.