Orb weaver to the right of me. Shielded fore winger to the left of me. A sprinkling of stamina on top of me. Leathery leaves umbrella above. Did the gold spider just itch one of her six legs? Hanging, she looks like an Olympic gymnast preparing for a round-off. A flower rests, coned on the ground like a soft, dead bird. We are in this cocoon to remember. 

The fluffy and feathery chlorophyll-rich, moss-encased tree trunk is soft to the touch where it was prickly in the dry season. Clustered ladybugs hang in tight bundles around desiccated stalk tops in the moist shade while others make a methodical precision-spaced commute across a sun-warmed sword frond. My path follows alongside an arid rain flow of dusty, decomposed humus. A council of Redwoods locates on a rise, the oldest and widest surveying the vast steamy stand. A crow jollies for minutes on end in punctuated guffaws until she dissolves in a ripple of raucous mirth. Tender chartreuse fascicle growth beckons me with their reach. 

We hold hands for a moment. 

The aquifer that reveals itself above ground even in the most gasping of times as a damp stain now holds pooled puddlettes in clay, to which I add, in humility, the water in me, a spit prayer carrying a dance of earthen verve. Thank you for life.