It is the season of clear skies and blinding light. It is early afternoon there stands a single lonely traffic cone shaped peak of emissive silver and gunmetal grey schist, amongst the white, cotton swab sea of clouds.

Silence. No gentle rustle of radiant trees, no piercing “hum” of doped insects tumbling through the sky, crashing into those who least suspect it. There’s nothing but silence surrounding the solitary traffic cone on the cloud highway, being more of a hazard than the lack of hazard, it is redirecting the clouds around.

It was an afternoon like every other. The aqua blue abyss fills the sky, but this time there stands two buttercup flowers, still contemplating whether the choice to sprout at the top of the only traffic cone this high was a good one. Schist starts to saunter its way down the mountain like a gaggle of pompous Brits, until the babble of stone fades into the dense silence. The flowers now sit, wilting eyed, fluttering amongst the restless neighbouring schist.

An eruption of lightening thunders as the twinkle of rain drums away against the mountain.

Look. With the last rays of light, making the horizon an undisturbed sea of red, enveloping the traffic cone with the illusion of embers in a dying fire.

When a pebble sized sparrow erupts from the field of cotton swabs, it glides through the fiery sky, greeting the solitary traffic cone with a pretentious ‘Squawk’, to then be swallowed by the field of cotton never to be seen again.

Sleep. Just before the buttercup flowers close their yellow highlighted eyelids for the night, they admire the sprinkle of stars like golden sand in the sea of darkness. Leaving the traffic cone to reflect the glitter of the starry night sky, waiting for the flowers return when the earths sun resusitates them.

Reds fade to yellows indicating the imminent arrival of the sun’s rays brushing away the remaining clouds, unmasking a valley of vibrant greens and brown crusty peaks. Bird song thrown back and distorted off the strong postured mountainsides holding each other up like a rugby scrum, leaving the surrounding birds confused about whether they are organising a picinic or war.

Blink. Recovering from the intensity, squinting at first light, the drowsy flowers regretably open their petals, fairy dust peppering the ground below. Just before the flowers had fully awoken, the ass of a bumblebee meets the flower’s face. As the bee ‘hums’ it wiggles it’s striped, cactus spiked butt deeper to rob the flower of its pollen, leaving the flower with black and yellow fuzz to remember him by.

Before, silenced by the clouds, the streams and creeks can now finally be heard from the top of the not so solitary traffic cone.
The new streams, crashing and making a ruckus, carving out rock and drawing away silt, while some of the well established rivers and creeks gently bubble and splash through the path left before them.

Meeting another day the flowers continue to hold tight, grasp unwavered, respecting their hostile surroundings, anxious that the last thing they will feel is their restless neighbours finally move.