Inside the grand circle of mountain ridges, inside the circle of trees that ring the grass, an abundance of pretty little things.

Beneath the ironwood tree, a fungal family up-reach through the ivy.

Shroom bloom.

Marching order.

But at each center of the tanish, beigeish disks, a spot of blue.

Shroom bloom single.

Blue, why blue?

Our snake this week was a third the length, a quarter the girth, a fiftieth the mass of last week’s blacksnake.
A little garter garden guarder.

Looking left.

Two foot of pure, well, snake.

Looking both ways, tongue forked and flicking, smelling me.

Watchful.

Forked tongue tiny.

Between the snake and the tomatoes a pile of brush.
What’s not to lich?

Brush pile art.

Digesting slowly.

Glad to be coral, in full rut; as shameless, if a bit more delicate, than a baboon’s butt.

Coral crescendo.

Gladolia, hereabouts.

Garden guarders, like the garter, may be verygolds.

Not Solomon.

Don’t stare directly at the fractals.

So nearly stepped on, just inside the kitchen door, a chevron,
an inch and a quarter, weirdly well drafted.

Thy name is symmetry.

Joan of Arc’s shield?

Not impressive as a flyer, kind of a stumble flutter.

Forever flower of France.

Fearless symmetry.

But eclipses my poor powers.

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