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The summer staine faces southward looking up at the arc of the summer sun, the moon, the stars and the planets. It absorbs the sky’s warmth and wisdom, storing that energy for the long winter ahead. The rock and its mysterious visage are divided by pointers to the five corners of the earth. The fifth pointer being the mark toward the land of fairies and other creatures of imagination who, on moon lite nights, carve symbols on certain rocks in the forest.
We are now in mid-summer. The morning sunrise comes later and the evenings are clearly darkening earlier. It is a time of easier living but when wells and streams dry up, forests burn and crops ripen we begin to look toward autumn with a growing anticipation. Soon, we will be rain-bound in the dark and look back on summer with a deep longing. Now is a time to celebrate life and simply savour the moment.
Summer is when fat trout cautiously laze in the shade of low, leafy branches and cast their own shadow through clear running water.
Downstream, dogs wet their bellies or swim out to chase sticks. They revel in the moment with a joy that only dogs truly know.
Further on, the stream meanders toward the sea where it will become cloud and rain to sustain life further around the planet.
At the water’s edge, ferns mark the narrow zone where the waterworld becomes forest.
A short distance from the stream bank apples fatten and slowly ripen.
Some will fall among delicate flowers.
Many will nourish the creatures of the forest.
Some apples will be made into hearty drink.
Every plant returns more than it takes. These flowers nourish bees who in turn, nourish us.
Remember that weeds are merely flowers for which someone else has decided they have no use.
Where there are thorns, there is also sweetness and sustenance.
Despite the sweat and toil of men who clear the land for their own design, the forest always returns at the first opportunity.
At the edge of town, there is still harvest from the forest and dogs scheme and dream while wiley rabbits watch and wonder.
While smoke fills the evening sky, Purple Martins still swoop and fly, banqueting on a plague of insects and so saving us from a minor curse.
Following the plume of smoke, Thorag soon found the crash site but could see no survivors
On the headland, young engineers continued to build a mighty fortress to stand against the impending invasion. They had docks and ramparts and even a store of coal should the battle last into winter.
In the village, shop keepers had taken to keeping massive dogs for protection.
Paths between the village and the fort were heavily trodden. A heady aroma of leaves crushed beneath foot filled the air. 
Outdoor furniture vibrated and rocked. There was a tension in the air.
A lone flower hid among the bracken which grew on the edges of the last stream where the earth’s life-essence drained thinly into the sea. Even the forest’s air was heavy with drought.
The forest continued to dry until leaves which were not able to contribute sustenance to the tree were cast away. There was need of a mutual nurturing. If not met, it could not be tolerated.
As if caught in a permanent state of falling, one dessicated leaf was snared incongruously by a spiders silk and hung fluttering in the wind.
All the while, vultures circled in the hot, rising air and waited.
“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.” – John Lubbock