We visited a dam recently, and while the kids and their friends plunged into the winter-cold water, pushed each other off the inflatable flamingo and scrambled around the steeper clay side of an inlet, and the dogs ran with joy, and also plunged into the cold water, I studied the weeds along the shoreline.
There were many small, sweet flowers that I would like to imagine were wildflowers, but were probably feral, and the light, sweet hay scent of all the golden grasses was comforting in the air, but I was struck by how restful, yet oddly arresting, the variations in brown of the dead plants were.
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