It's easy to hear bumble bees from a dozen feet away, especially on the wild senna where they furiously pulse their bodies to shake out pollen. I counted six on just one stem, and their must be thirty stems out here. In the new meadow the young bluestem and sideoats grama are covered in dew that dazzles sharply as light is refracted from inside each droplet. Blossoms of coneflower, blazingstar, black-eyed susan, nodding onion, and verbena hold still in this heavy morning air.
I won't come back out today -- any temperature above 80 starts to make me falter. But I'll listen from a cracked window for a few moments. The bees. The cardinals and finches. I'll catch a blur of black or orange or yellow as butterflies traverse the path from old garden to new with a desert of concrete patio between. Soon it will be autumn, that most glorious season, and we will be frenetic together in our preparations and joy as the chilled garden explodes in bloom one last time.