I have always found this hashtag ironic. How can a picture be silent? What follows is a riff on this rhetorical question.

Stone steps, jackrock stones, limestone from a nearby fallen foundation cemented into a back 'stoop', and a weed.

Weeds are plants that we can't use that are in inconvenient places. Here is part of the story about this one. Our old weedwhacker finally gave it up after long and loyal use. I did my homework and much to my consuming surprise I discovered that electric string trimmers have entered the world of real work. So I got one. It was lighter and quieter and better balanced than our old Echo model. And the only sound it did make was more like a hive of busy bees than the angry ones the old trimmer made. Big win. My wife went nuts trimming around the back stoop, but she left this flower intact. She decided at some point to redefine what this plant was. Not a weed. In moments like these I can scarcely believe the depth of feeling that rises up. I would have saved the weed, too, just like we save errant box turtles in the road and luna moths confused on the ground and birds that crash our glass but survive if given a safe perch.

Why must "silent Sunday" photos always be panoramic or colorful or perfectly composed or a tower of mastery? We know the colorful birds, but we deny the brown and dusky night jar with its incredible "whipporwhill" call. I wanted to celebrate the weed. I do not know the names of most weeds like this. It is possible there is a cure for diabetes hidden in here, but that is not why I value it. I love it for its persistence in the face of all that wants it dead including the lame aesthetic that values big, beautiful, well made compositions. I love it for is don't give an effing eff attitude. I love it for its I will be back even if you pull me out.

I love it for this wee white flower that says, " I am not the macro or the mondo, but I am in the micro bigger than all the others." I am a mystery. I serve no purpose. All I do is live with desire for history or celebrity. In fact I would rather no fuss be made at all.

Mostly, I love this because it makes me realize how much I love she who spared it. It is that same compassion that makes me a better man than I could have ever hoped. We work together and we share a happy ethos that knows our time is very short on this planet and that we must save what we can, even the humble weed on the back door stoop. Especially that week. I am that weed.

Here is the link if you want to join in

Mostly, I love this because it makes me realize how much I love she who spared it. It is that same compassion that makes me a better man than I could have ever hoped. We work together and we share a happy ethos that knows our time is very short on this planet and that we must save what we can, even the humble weed on the back door stoop. Especially that week. I am that weed.

I love it for this wee white flower that says, " I am not the macro or the mondo, but I am in the micro bigger than all the others." I am a mystery. I serve no purpose. All I do is live with desire for history or celebrity. In fact I would rather no fuss be made at all.

Why must "silent Sunday" photos always be panoramic or colorful or perfectly composed or a tower of mastery? We know the colorful birds, but we deny the brown and dusky night jar with its incredible "whipporwhill" call. I wanted to celebrate the weed. I do not know the names of most weeds like this. It is possible there is a cure for diabetes hidden in here, but that is not why I value it. I love it for its persistence in the face of all that wants it dead including the lame aesthetic that values big, beautiful, well made compositions. I love it for is don't give an effing eff attitude. I love it for its I will be back even if you pull me out.

Stone steps, jackrock stones, limestone from a nearby fallen foundation cemented into a back 'stoop', and a weed.

Weeds are plants that we can't use that are in inconvenient places. Here is part of the story about this one. Our old weedwhacker finally gave it up after long and loyal use. I did my homework and much to my consuming surprise I discovered that electric string trimmers have entered the world of real work. So I got one. It was lighter and quieter and better balanced than our old Echo model. And the only sound it did make was more like a hive of busy bees than the angry ones the old trimmer made. Big win. My wife went nuts trimming around the back stoop, but she left this flower intact. She decided at some point to redefine what this plant was. Not a weed. In moments like these I can scarcely believe the depth of feeling that rises up. I would have saved the weed, too, just like we save errant box turtles in the road and luna moths confused on the ground and birds that crash our glass but survive if given a safe perch.

I have always found this hashtag ironic. How can a picture be silent? What follows is a riff on this rhetorical question.