Crimson Tipped
Crimson Tipped

The party went on below in the hollow of the hills, and all who ringed the top cliffs wore crimson tips to mark their approval of the festivities. Were they blushing, or were they flush with excitement?

Down below, at the center of the party the music rang loud and clear, almost deafening the partiers, but as the sound rose into the hills it became more magical and elusive, transforming as it echoed off the rocks and refracted into many happy pools of sound for those who watched from above. Theirs was a party that was muted and magnified, made more mysterious because they were distanced from it. There was safety from full involvement in the celebration for those in the hills. The shy young weeds could watch and learn from those wild ones who danced and drank and swooned in full passion with the party.

And for those below, those in full throes of party ecstasy, if their gaze wandered skyward, they caught a glimpse of their former, more innocent selves watching with fascination and yet still somewhat detached. There was no judgment, no declaration of opinion, there were simply acts of soaking it all in and observing. That sense of being observed without judgement added a racy element to the experience of the partiers below and they became more free in their celebrations.

All this in daylight. Just wait until the sun goes down! Oh, those wild weeds, what secrets are they privy to? It kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

Please come back tomorrow for a new “Weed Image of the Day” and let me know which ones you like.

We and our weeds are so much more than what we first appear to be.

Unauthorized use, distribution and/or duplication of any of this material without the express written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

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