We walk Winston down the mountain road. There are twin gravel trails defined by the travel of opposing tires. There are also sprigs of arrogant grass that grow between them, even though it’s supposed to be a road. A road is no place for grass, yet there it is in its audacity, and it doesn’t even look unusual—gravel roads all over the world look just like this one.

Seeds are bold that way.

They know how to do what they are made to do, and they do it well. They don’t question it, doubt it, ignore it, or yearn to be an ocean instead. They don’t wait to be green enough, full enough or fret about which season it is. They don’t study what a seed is, compare themselves to other seeds, or worry when they sprout. They just do what comes natural. They germinate, grow, and continue the plant life cycle wherever they find themselves, whenever possible. They do it in cracks in concrete, in the sliver of space between the brick pavers on the garden path, and between the tire tracks of a gravel road up a mountain under a canopy of car axels and Winston’s paws.

Seeds are bold that way.


And when you do what you were meant to do deliberately and persistently, daisies might join you just for the sheer pleasure of it.


Apparently audacity is contagious.