The winter rains come – we are expecting some all week – and then they leave. Plants, such as this fennel, grow tall, their yellow blooms reaching upward. Mustard, too, and native and (probably) non-native grasses fill the spaces between. And then the rains stop. All becomes brittle and brown, fuel for the summer fires which fly across California, driven by winds, through steep canyons and open lands. A cycle of life in the natural world.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And, while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.