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The day after the Sound Summit concert, all was quiet on the mountain again. Patches of California fuchsia provided the only wildflower color, exuberant among dried-up grass stems.
I spooked a few deer browsing below the fuchsia and, a little higher up, a smattering of skinny-looking, nearly colorless wild turkeys as I watched the fading harvest moon sink between the crowns of Doug fir trees. Up near Rock Spring, a pileated woodpecker was working the old Doug fir snag where the Cataract and Benstein trails diverge.
Down along the creek there was no running water for quite a ways. Just a few pools with clusters of water striders on top and a darting fish or two below. Bees buzzing down along the stream's edge looking for safe places to land and take a drink. A blue dragonfly hawking through bugs whirling over the water, its wings pattering like the sound of dry paper.
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