(For continuity, read previous entry first)

I did offer a slice of Brie, but it was turned down. Trying to be fair, I figured the unwitting offender wasn’t wise to the deal I was offering, so it wouldn’t be reasonable to deny my forgiveness on that account. Realizing this, I decided to be magnanimous anyway. Truthfully, I wasn’t actually feeling that upset; what I wrote before was what I felt as I read the poem; that is, if I could have had the presence of mind at the moment to record it. But that’s not usually how things work. They need to simmer for a while before serving.
Like stir fry.
And since I was feeling generous, I also pardoned a sweet wine brand I swore off after downing a bottle in a Billings Super 8 (I had a VIP membership) two years ago to the week, while my rented Ford Focus sat fuming in the parking lot after two hours of supra-100mph travel on gravel roads*. I absolved it by drinking some. I felt a little flush afterward, but I think that was because I didn’t eat a real dinner.
The next afternoon I spent in silence. After a brief time at work, I decided that rather than going home I’d drive north on 85 and let road guide my whim. A few exits out, I veered off and found myself surprisingly close to my favorite Eno River entrance (see two entries ago). Since I’ve started the habit of keeping running clothes in my car, I was in prime position to drop by for a visit.
About half an hour into my jog, I came upon a well-kept clearing with a dilapidated cabin, lots of firewood, a tractor, and an outbuilding, all of which I’m assuming belong to the park service. After an unsuccessful search for an ax with which to try my hand at some of the larger stumps, and being frightened half to death by the sound of movement in the cabin, I decided to head back for the parking lot, out of sight over a large pasture. But just at the corner of the field a small patch of wildflowers grabbed my attention. They were about three feet tall with 6 petals, alternating yellow and pink with splashes of ochre and bright red, each with randomly placed deep maroon dots. The stem disappeared into knife-like iris leaves. As I was watching, a tiny lavender butterfly landed on the flower. Though I haven’t tried hallucinogens (yet), I’d imagine that after half a day of complete silence and an hour in the direct sun, I was feeling something similar to a mild trip.
An internet search later revealed the flower to be a variation of Pardancanda x norrisii, a non-native iris hybrid made by some guy in Kentucky. That makes me grimace slightly; wildflowers shouldn’t have an “x” in their names. But regardless, it was quite lovely. Recently, near Dupont Circle in DC (aren't I cosmopolitan?) I stumbled serendipitously across the same strain. My good friend, Emily, visible in the picture, was kind enough to photograph it for me, and now that you've seen it, for you, too.




*No hard feelings to anyone