I’d been out this way with my pal Todd the day before and noticed the incredible amount of wild roses blooming along the aptly-named Rosebud River. The day had been parsimonious in its portioning of nice light, though - it kinda sucked, in fact - so we rolled on through. But there was potential there. I decided to head back the next morning.
And here I was.
The lakes east of Keoma were flat and reflective, the pinkish clouds repeating on their mirrored surfaces. Mist drifted along pushed by a slight morning breeze. Clouds of midges had started to rise and they milled in twisting pods], spinning in mini-murmurations. Blackbirds called, ducks quacked. A muskrat nibbled on a cattail breakfast.
The bank of clouds on the horizon dissipated quickly and let the morning light flood across the fields and pastures. Shafts of it pushing between trees along the irrigation canals lit the last of the lingering mist. The new greens of the grain fields and grass glowed like emeralds.
The roses, though, didn’t.
I’m not sure why. They were just as numerous as the day before but in the morning light they were harder to see. In the grey light of the previous afternoon their pink faces glowed against all the green. Now, in the direct light of the newly-risen sun, they seem to blend in. Not that they weren’t pretty, oh, my, no. But they just didn’t stand out.