The garden seems to be sad, or at least tired. The heat is oppressive, and most of the flowers are cringing away from the harsh, uncaring light. No matter the amount of water, or love we pore on them, they continue to die. What courage to stand still, face the inevitable, tolerate near drowing on a daily basis and still stand unweeping.

The grass is ignorant and uncaring, like a old man for whom time has cruely ignored his pleas of death, it can only sit and wait until winters harsh cold can kill it enough to die for just a while.

In a small corner, a large brown spider quietly kills the smaller insects in the garden. Death is everywhere, and yet so is color. Splashes of red, yellow, orange and blue all mix in to celebrate this annual triumph over permenant existance. To hell with forever these little bits of chlorophyll seem to say, for I shall be wonderful for just a moment and that should be enough for anyone.

The rocks are the least bothered by it all. They are the oldest in the garden, even older that the dirt. The rocks were here first, and they constantly show off to the others by not only not moving, but not even not caring that they are not moving. The rocks have found shibumi...