The greens have turned to purples, to pinks, to yellows. Yellow is the color of the week, I think, with white daisies sprinkled throughout. Sundrops and buttercups lift their little faces to the sky. But the foxgloves are dangerously poking their heads up for a look-see, too; pinks and purples, still.

Tourists have come up for air as well, in full force. We welcome them, but they spread; not like weeds so much, but more like goldenrod or buttercups, those pretty well-meaning yellow flowers that creep in from the wood and prairie edge to slowly infiltrate the gardens in the yard, the carefully cultivated fields. These days we wait a pretty minute to turn left from our roads onto the highway, see the parking spots all gone missing, hear strange dogs barking at the Airbnb next door. I believe “insidious” is the word. That’s a little harsh, maybe, how ‘bout “blossoming” instead as a metaphorical extension? Thankfully the birds outnumber those visitors, and the trees, the waves, the sand on the beach, the roadside blooms as well. We’ve invited them here, of course; however, like that fun and zany friend who arrives for the weekend, we are happy to see him come — and happy to see him go.

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