Below me ferns spread rising and splayed to meet the sun, star shaped flowers and vines creep along under their cover. Lichen spreads lazily on the rock, the wind picks up and I hear bugs buzzing, trees rustling and it almost sounds like running water. A big black ant crawls across my smudge painting, a spider starts and stops hesitatingly on the rock face, in a hauntingly mechanical manner. A dragon fly sits for a moment on a leave then another, then rests beside me.
Beetles, bees, ants, moths and butterflies dance in and out of view, in and out of earshot. Above my head a dead pine reaches up into the cloudless sky like the bristles of an inverted broom, as poplars and aspen flutter in a high breeze. Dots of yellow buttercups on the ground in the grass are navigated by bees ad butterflies in a lazy but precise path. A green caterpillar inches up my leg, then arm to check me out.
I can feel the weather chance as a cold breeze seems across my exposed skin. I am in awe of how many bugs and plants and flowers I've never stopped to watch or hear. How many different buzzes, flicks, whines, flutters, rustles, chirps, peeps and whistles there are to hear, and how many more I do not yet hear, awaiting to be heard.