Mary Isabelle in cool repose
Skink in the sun. This fellow doesn’t have his blue tail on. Some of them do.
Rose Mallow. This reminds me that when I was a girl I used to imagine the colorful insides of flowers to be ballrooms, and the stamens were women in their gowns, dancing.
These insect sounds have the sort of lazy, late-summer drone that all my life has made me want to find a spot to lie down and take a nap.