Mist spills from the stream, then rises—slowly, suddenly— a column of fog where shadow meets sun. This reflection is about warmth, lift, and letting go. A hawk will rise on this same breath of air, and fly for miles.

The bugs are back. Bees lumber. Gnats buzz. Ants march. Moths drift. This reflection is about the miniature symphony unfolding all around us— and what it means to be a tiny, brief part of something infinitely larger. Even with gnats in your ear.

Frogs call from the stream. Bats pour from the chimney. Insects rise like smoke. This reflection is about the limits of perception — how frogs see color we cannot, bats hear shape we’ll never know, and countless worlds unfold around us, just beyond our senses. How many universes brush past us each night, unnoticed but fully alive?

I’ve spent my life planning. Careers. Companies. Calorie counts. Futures I may never see. This piece is about the joy of the game— and the quiet wisdom that comes when you realize the sun is setting on the field. Play hard. Play well. Then step off into starlight, laughter, and mosquitoes.

My daughter has returned home. A new husband. Two quiet cats. We find ourselves together in a season of transition— between continents, between careers, between life and death. This reflection is about catbirds, tangled margins, and the wild grace of transition. Where the stable gives way to the shifting. Where nothing endures, and everything grows. We are all dwellers of the thicket— becoming, dissolving, blooming again.

A summer storm lifted my old camping tent into the sky. It was just nylon and poles—but also the sacred ground of childhood, fatherhood, and a thousand quiet moments. This reflection is about the stories we attach to what we lose… and the deeper strength it takes to let go. Letting go doesn’t mean not caring. It means facing what is, without clinging—and saying, with your whole heart: Nevertheless.

The heat is relentless. Sweat clings. We dream of snow. And still, we long for something else. This reflection is about that restlessness— and how, beyond it, the world unfolds in perfect rhythm. Not chasing. Not correcting. Just becoming. We are sparks in a river of stars, brief flashes of knowing in a universe that’s already whole.

In the midday heat, the valley holds its breath— life retreating to the cool edges of dawn and dusk. This reflection is about heat and hush, lavender and fireflies, and how the world exhales into evening— a slow turning from dragonfly to deer, from bumblebee to bat, from sun to starlight.

The heat has cracked the earth. The sky hangs low. But this morning, green shoots rise where the mower cut too deep— and from the bamboo thicket, a mother deer steps forward. Twin fawns follow, speckled and trembling, learning how to be wild. This reflection is about that brief, perfect moment— between milk and thorn, between safety and sorrow. Before the forest swallows them again.

After days of rain, the valley pulses green. Cicadas sing. Tomatoes bend low. Black walnut leaves fall like early hints of goodbye. This reflection is about the thick, fragrant breath of late summer— when everything feels eternal, until it doesn’t. Only in its passing do we glimpse its true shape.

The valley wakes in song. Cicadas, hummingbirds, dew-laced grass. A breath, a breeze. A moment. This reflection is about letting go of clocks and stories— and stepping into the luminous stillness beneath it all. No coming. No going. No loss. Only this sunlit sea. Only now.