“What happened???” soap plant asks in amazement as it pokes its green tuft of leaves into the sun after its hibernation, snuggled underground in summer slumber, in dry paper wrappers with the other wet season bulbs. There is no reply from his few remaining charred neighbors. Sourgrass, awakened by the first rainfall since April stretches out its dangly yellow arms, equally stunned, but not disappointed with the new view of the ocean. “Wildfire,” yawns rattlesnake, slithering into a den to sleep away winter: the frost, the mushrooms and mudslides, the canadian geese calling on their flight path south. “The light contains all things and all things contain the light,” call the geese from overhead as they chase summer southward, quoting Dogen, I believe. And here I am, sketching up an echoless canyon among shadowless trees, thinking of how people are like floating bubbles on a stream, three-hundred and sixty degree traveling mirrors, reflecting the world and each other. arising and popping unexpectedly: the creek’s eyes. And it’s fascinating to think of what plants and animals miss out on in their cycles of dormancy- napping away entire seasons blind in their own cocoons. Snacking now, carefully peeling wrappers from a hard-boiled egg and some sunflower seeds, a satisfied bubble enjoying the stream, I wonder about my own blind spots, which I quickly decide don’t exist, since I can’t see them.