Pale color rides branch and twig above the celia blooming high on Georges Gap.  A contrarian, this small white flower year after year proves herself indifferent to the law requiring spring to begin first in the valley then climb, slow and steady, to higher elevations.

Laws, she says, are made to be broken, as she lays white across the top of the highest peaks.  Laws are language, she says as she delicately perfumes the forest floor.  Laws do not laugh or kiss the back of your neck in the spring night.  Laws are for the dead, she says, and I am alive.  Climb up to me.  Come home.