I’m laying under a tree watching the world try to revive from winter. I’m half gazing at the scrubby grass that has, somehow, managed to hang on this long.
In the haze >where fog meets sky?> a spec is dottering along. It reminds me of old movies where single engine prop planes would, somehow, run out of fuel and be buffeted around. They always shoot up a little and stagger back. The dottering spec is growing larger now. It’s clearly red against the pastel sky.
An :agitated (how so, describe): ladybug lands on my kneed. She spins–dancing like a Sufi in meditation. I’m grinning and boping my head to her rhythm.
Before long I notice she is starring at me. I shake my head, I have no idea when she stopped dancing. I blink and try to drop back into the social contract. I tilt my head… She gets impatient and starts beating her wing covers in frustration/protest. I’m sorry that it takes me so long to adjust.
I’m sorry that I get swept away in romantic notions and daydreams. “Oh. Hey. I like watching you dance. Wonderful day, isn’t it?
She forgives me with a curtsy. She crawls through my thick hair and circles back around. She is
unnerved put off by the skewness distorted angle of the shadows, but let’s it rest–she’s only just emerged, maybe it’s always like that at first. I join in her rejoicing of summer. We’re excited by the smell of dirt and the promise of the sweetness of aphids. We praise the heat and thawing.
That morning I was rudely and unwillingly woken.