Weeds

It is a walk I often take. These days in the growing heat of summer, I most often go in the morning.

Nearby used to be a field with 3-4 horses. It’s the part of urban-meets-rural that I love about where I live. I’d often gather a couple of apples from a wilded apple tree to give to the horses.

Now that field has given way to development, as is so often the pattern. There is a paved road that runs through it awaiting seven half-acre lots for homes.

I walk there often, remembering the horses. These days, seeing weeds that flower. Nature that insists on expression. Beauty that can’t be anything other than itself. From these unwatered and untended lots yet to have homes.

I love what grows naturally. I suppose, what insists on a bit of wildness. And what refuses too narrow of categorizing. Between flower and weed, between domesticated and wild exists several important and interesting nuances, no?

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