A few feet west of the Little Catapult Factory, and buried in the rock Excalibur-like,  we encounter this sturdy fellow.

This royal throne of weedery, this fissure filled with life, this happy breed of  plant set in the graying granite, which serves it in the office of a pedestal, or as a castle defensive to a goat , ….. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm,  this Verbascum  Bombiciferous !

I am forever amazed at how nature abhors a vacuum.  In weeds, in birds, in bees, in everything.  There are no second place winners if the niche in the rock is small enough.

Rhetorical dogmas are equally exploitative of their natural environment as any weed clinging to a rock, and the supposed sapience of our species does not seem to venture very far from home once the roots go down.  What was it Twain said?   “Tell me where a man gets his corn pone, and I’ll tell you what his political opinions are”.   When belief has settled in the mind,  how can we ever know if it is not merely the tenacity of nature expressing itself?  If we triumph in being rational and objective creatures, this insidious truncation of outlook is something to be keenly watched for.   Truth is always, coloured by the niche we inhabit.

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