Here is a grassland missing its flowers. Cows ate them. While thousands of people have been going to work in the valley below, and back, and forth, only the deer and a curious man have been walking this trail. Well, and the coyotes.
My front lawn to the rescue. I planted it in flowers 6 years ago. Here’s a leaf hopper.
No insects in the “grassland.”
Two Years of Introduced Crested Wheat Grass, Pretty Lonely
But here’s a beetle (I think.)
And a little shadow bee, camouflaged for sagebrush.
And this beauty.
And this little fly. Everyone comes.
Every year, I find a different collection of species. I’m over fifty now. I don’t know their names. I call this golden bee.
Isn’t this one beautiful? All this was within five minutes, in one garden.
There should be flowers in the grass. The bees evolved for them. And now? Well, a deer trail. Somebody ate all the flowers.
At least there’s my garden.
Aphids, even. Everyone needs a home.
Up on the hill? Ravens cleaning up.
But down here? Ah.
Everyone else. Now I have to help them find their way back. Here.
That is a poet’s work. In this country, the country of the people driving back and forth to work and never coming up on the hill, there is this, pretending to stand in its place:
Toronto’s Ken Babstock as a poetry judge. Sad, really.
Love a planet, today.
Stuff like this doesn’t happen on Mars.