That humming haze that hangs like a weight in the atmosphere one day ups and vanishes. You step outside in the morning and get a whiff of a cold trout stream somewhere in Montana, or something like it that makes you think about your favorite flannel shirt. Everything's going to seed. Maybe the ability to appreciate this is something that comes with age. It would make sense that it's a maturity thing.
Kids revel in the blossoms.
Gray beards see beauty in seeds. This morning I had my dog out trying her nose at tracking, retrieving from heavy brush. By the end of a half hour, she looked like a seed catalog. What we later brushed out of her black, curly coat could have planted an acre or two. And it was nothing, absolutely nothing, to the seed left behind.