the century plants that dot the hills and gardens around our home fascinate me.
they have pre-history written all over them (writing having not been invented yet.) their texture is the hide of dinosaurs and the guttural first languages of man. their color is the sulphur of volcanoes and the misty marsh gas.
the swoops of each leaf/arm/leg/appendage with their mysterious shadows and bright highlights are worlds all their own (you can hear jean auel in the background.) i am in awe of their patience.