This summer seems like a miracle summer.
In the long light of our afternoons, we've been trodding up the hills behind our home. It's stupid pretty. It's "I can't believe it" pretty. Each week, a new kind of wildflower has poked its head into the sun. Today we stepped over bushels of mountain bluebells and yellow "butter and eggs," with the occasional exclamation of an Indian paintbrush. The hillside is a showoff, flaunting how many wildflowers and how many fuschias it can produce. One feels the need to run through it like Heidi.
This uncommon rain has made the scrub oaks grow thick, and we tunnel through them. The rustling in the oaks always sounds like a large cat, but it's always just a little chickadee poking about. Hummingbirds whir and dive overhead. Cottontails hop across the path to hide in the bushes. Two white deer tentatively place each foot as they pass us, like ladies.
Like I said, stupid pretty. I feel at each step like I've come through the rusty old gate to The Secret Garden. My own Narnia, and Mike must be my personal faun.
This summer seems like anything could happen. The surprise rain awakens old hopes. The improbability and vulnerability of a field of wildflowers makes anything seem possible. But even if my dreams are still deferred it will have been a miracle summer, in just the curve of a milky yucca flower and the grace of a white deer's neck.