Today down on Leawood I plucked a clump of lavender from a large fluffy bush still teeming with honey bees, small and vibrant as they darted amid the thick purple flowers, and I wondered, who do the flowers belong to, the gardener or the bees, or the person who stops on the sidewalk and admires them, pressing his face into their fragrance before taking a sprig home with him? And who do the rabbits belong to, nestled as they are in the yards, moving without moving, ears pressed flat, eyes big and wide reflecting the last of the sun and the long shadows? Do they belong to the grass where they huddle and leave their scent, or to the dog who stands long minutes, a single paw raised and pointing as though calling attention to them from the universe itself? And who do the leaves belong to, glowing and quivering in the sun on their boughs, the tree who birthed them or the ground, patient and almost motionless, which has watched them enviously for long, long minutes and will finally claim them? Who do the names carved in the railing at the lake belong to, the lovers who felt the press of time against them or the fingers which find them and trace them over and over and over again? Who does the wash of warm western light belong to, the gracious and generous sun or the silhouette of the dog which catches it and radiates it back into the flowers and the eyes of the bunnies, the shimmer of nearly invisible bee wings, the honey-lit leaves and the long grass? And does it matter, this belonging, or is it enough to stand before them for long minutes and know them utterly and openly, content that you belong to them?