There sure is a lot of sex at the end of the world as I thought I knew it. After a socially distant run on the chip trail, I finish with a sweaty stroll through the neighborhood park, pausing on a footbridge across the small creek. The air has become a breathing thing, ribs of willow and cottonwood exhaling …
At the edge of certainty at the edge of vision at the edge of a squishy two-track tunneling into shade, they appear when the I most need them. With thumb and forefinger I tip one face toward mine. Five petals flare like petite fingers above a mottled pouch that looks for all the world at the end of the world like a tiny heart about to throb. Calypso orchid, aka Calypso bulbosa, aka thumb-size goblet of orchid sex nodding yes.