I thought I knew this species of plant. Apparently, however, I do not. It grows wild in numerous places and it intermingles freely with other plants: particularly American Pokeweed, and garish, brilliant nightshade. I suspect I’ve learned the name of this plant at one time, but like many things, such a name slipped from my mind. I love all aspects of nature, but since childhood, I’ve lived within the habit of not really knowing what various plants are, simply because they don’t really do things to grab one’s attention. In my childhood mind, one didn’t need to know plants as readily as various animals, simply because one never had to identify a particular species of plant prone to biting, chasing small animals, or laying eggs just beneath the skin of your favorite neighborhood dog. Quite a few animal-things have such habits: most of those animal-things insect in overall nature, and they bear distinct, colorful marking (or odd morphologies) to aid in identification. It’s easier to remember something that makes little girls on playgrounds scream. It’s easy to remember things that lay eggs (in prodigious numbers) in gardens ripe for a child’s insidious, scientific revenge (yes, I’ve murdered a few gardens in my day.) With the exception of poison ivy or poison oak, or rose bushes on an exceptionally windy day, there’s no challenge in catching plants, bare-handed, or learning their habits (and perceptions) in ways that might allow you to stroke them. With my camera in hand, I photographed a plant: a strange plant in the habit of…well…climbing itself. I saw vines. I saw leaves. I saw fines attaching themselves to leaves (on the same plant) and I realized, after a while, that the unidentified green thing before my camera was in the process of… …um… …climbing itself. Vine-like tendrils and leaves occupying the same parent branches seemed to intertwine, intermingle, and confuse themselves. I saw diminutive flower stems (of the same plant) strangled by its vines, as the vines themselves sought purchase so that the plant might grow a bit more thataway. I saw vine tendrils meandering across neighbor-branch leaves, providing for an interesting contrast in color and texture. The tendrils themselves are incredibly strong, and the leaves are…well…somewhat rough and distinctly urban. I’m sure that I’ll learn the name of this plant. But until then, I’ll simply maintain my amusement in the fact that this particular plant is the first that I’ve ever seen using itself as an anchor, a ladder, a means of slow, vegetable ascent. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great weekend.