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Sitting here, the fractured sunbeams of 
light are sparkling through and upon 
a squadron of hovering solitary bees. 
They’ve been hovering since I got here, 
acting like modern-day drones. Yet 
they are ancient, purposeful, singing 
with sounds of peace . . . not war.
I really can’t tell, amongst all this 
chatter of little birds moving about the 
high canopy . . . and the most delicate 
little spider webs swaying in the light 
summer breeze down near ground 
level . . . that anybody involved here 
is fighting or competing or warring. It 
appears to be an incredibly diverse and 
naturally driven ecosystem of logic that 
is simply going about a day in the life.
As the morning sun begins climbing 
into high noon, my notebook is lighting 
up with flickers of solar flares coming 
through Grandad’s arms above.
 
Finally, a distant sound of D9 dozer 
way across the river has gone quiet 
for lunch hour. Probably somebody 
‘cleaning up’ behind last week’s flood. 
That was when our beloved Llano 
River came up thirty-five feet. Oh, 
what a mess some people make. 
“Starting with right where we are 
and what we can do now just out 
the front door . . . will surely begin 
to bring us all to the healing.”
© Grace Scalzo

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