An early walk before the day becomes too hot. Thunderstorms are forecast. Distant wheat fields shimmer in a heat haze laden with insects small enough to be wafted aloft on columns of warm air: winged aphids, tiny black staphylinid beetles, and thrips, which we called “thunder bugs” when I was a child.
After several days of stifling heat, spear thistles spill soft cascades of plumed seeds, trapped among needle-spined leaves until convection currents tug them free. For a moment they hang in the still air, whiskery plumes struggling with gravity until rising thermals carry them away.
