I think to myself as I walk the worn narrow path that the tall wild bushes encroach on.
There’s a sweet spot the dog likes to sniff every time we pass this way, and I let her nosing about remind me to pause there, on the narrow dirt path, lean into the flowering bushes that are reaching out, and listen to the bees buzzing in unison
that were not there today.
Perhaps it was too cool?
Perhaps the flowers have given up all their sweetness?
We are the bees
And we are the passer-by
Here one moment, gone the next.
May we always pause there, on our narrow path of life, and listen to the whisper of what is
and the silence of what was.