where the writers are
Mother Earth Requesting Your Attention

Driving home in the twilight of day, the sun in front, high above the cars that block my path, in the sky are dazzling colors, reds and blues, yellow and greens all screaming, "Look at me; am I not to be admired? Was your day so bad that the beauty of my face and the splendor that I exude is lost on the many thoughts that crowd your brain"?  "Have I not given you enough of myself to warrant even a glance"? She has put on her favorite dress, fluffy and white, spun strands of sunlight in her hair and blotted her horizon with the promise of more on the other side. She flirts with ground below by casting shadows across where tall trees stand to bid her hello. Soft breaths of air kiss my cheek, hot from the day of 116, but full of lusty moisture hours away. The glare from her eyes causes me to lower my visor, but she still creeps in to warm my shoulders. Before I can take her in, she changes luring another to her beauty. Softer this time she streaks across the sky, barely touching the Earth. Her glow melts into a kaleidoscope of song, sweet and mellow.She lays down and quietly submits to the darkness around her. The moon takes her gently into its arms and rocks her sleep.