(I wrote this poetic story on September 10, 1995, except for a few small edits.)
A gentle breeze blows across the mountain meadow. Waves ripple over the green and yellow grasses. Thistles and Queen Anne’s lace rock quietly from side to side. Small purple flower buds draw circles through the air. A yellow flower also sways slowly to the rhythm, alone among the grasses of the field.
The flower shines fiery and effulgent, glowing and radiating like a splash of liquid sunlight. Its petals are long and narrow, and they ride the wind as if floating up and down on waves of water.
A bee flits by and leaves a memory of its gentle hum.
The bee returns and swings around to a side of the flower, hovers there briefly, and then swings around to the other side. The shifting winds turn the bee's hum into melody. Hovering over the flower, the bee stretches its legs forward, and dips its abdomen to land among the golden petals.
In one swift blur, the petals retract sharply from the bee and swing the flower onto the side of its stem. The bee darts backwards and turns itself around. Once upon the stem, the flower hurries down the stalk, its petals scurrying like spider legs. The bee has meanwhile flown far away.
A lazy breeze meanders across the mountain meadow. Waves ripple over the green and yellow grasses. Flies crisscross the air and grasshoppers click their ratchedy sounds. A soft waft of pine visits the meadow and just as quickly disappears.