Bee balm runs red and wild up through our small valley and is more thickly lush in this year's summer season than any we have seen.  A bee balm summer, the air above their Dr Zeuss-y heads is filled with raucous, sometimes fractious, hummingbirds who appear to favor this flower above all others.

Hummingbirds. I have been fortunate enough to spot an occasional small, messy, lichen-patched nest seemingly hung with  cavalier indifference to any possibility of predatory assault.  I have never seen hum-babies but I do think it safe to assume their existence.  Or maybe this tiny warrior sprang full grown from the head of the bee balm much like Athena from the head of Zeus.

Foolish thought, of course, but sweet to come near a fairy tale when considering the brutish rounds of daily news both near and far.  I can only hope Sandra Bland's mother has a garden.  I can only hope a glimpse of a flower blooming fresh and sweet may give her a brief respite from what must be overwhelming grief for her daughter's senseless death.

A truculent woman (my favorite kind) from some accounts was Mrs. Bland's daughter.  Feisty and not inclined to surrender the smallest bit of her dignity, of her right to be.  Just like the hummingbird. Much like the bee balm.

I did not know her but find myself grieving her brief life cut short by a brutal death all the same.  I'll remember you, Sandra Bland.  I won't forget you.