Reflections on a dead weed.

Just a weed ...

Dried flowers, Reifel Island.

... as if a plant could ever be "just" a weed. How many beetles and ants and plant bugs did this one provide nourishment for in its prime? How many buzzing bees and wasps hovered over it? How did it scent the breeze, or anchor the mud? Did sparrows sit on the top and pick off caterpillars for a snack?

And now, in its decreptitude, it still provides joy; the pleasure of structure, of tiny flower shapes (which are probably the base of long-departed seeds), the dry rustle of dead leaves on a silent afternoon, the warmth of browns on a grey-blue day.

The birds and the bugs know best; catch them saying, "just a weed"! Never.