Dusty Rose

The stifling heat abated this morning, and it was a prime time for a walk. Booker and I headed up the road feeling good and a bit more energized. There is a short stretch of highway we must take to get to the dirt road we prefer. To my dismay the traffic seems to be winning the battle between man versus nature. Dead turtles, their shells in flattened tatters, glittered in the sun as we walked along the shoulder. A large snapping turtle was decomposing in the taller grass just off the highway. The loving part of me hoped it had died quickly. The angry part of me hoped it had at least damaged the killer-cars tire. I mean how hard is it to swerve around a turtle? This guy was BIG, and would have been visible to an alert driver. A bit further down the way a beaver was splattered across the road in chunks and bits while drunken flies partied in its brownish pools of blood. By time Booker and I reached the dirt road, my energy had faded into sadness. We walked along quietly. Lost in thought, I looked at the sky and its wispy clouds floating above the trees. Booker, sensing my mood, gave me space and investigated all pertinent pee-mails left by other animals. Almost as if I were seeing a mirage, I noticed a flash of pink on the edge of the gravel road. Booker and I drifted over and discovered the tiniest wild rose I had ever seen. At least the plant was tiny. The bloom dwarfed the supporting plant. Dust, from the morning commuters, clung in beige clumps along the dew beaded petals. It was beautiful. The surprise of its size and location reminded me of the resilience of nature. Thank heavens. It was a gift that was the best part of my day.