The starlings are doing their collective acrobatics, coming in for the last of the apples; the sweet corn has been topped to get the last bit of swell to the kernels; and there are no fewer than four deer corpses feeding the buzzards in the three-mile stretch into town. The buzzards will be circling above the back field soon, not for some kill but to file off one at a time due south. Jupiter is the brightest it will be for the next fifty years, the moon is waning low on the horizon and the house is noticeably quieter tonight.
I want to think about cycles, for we seem prone to go that way this time of year, except the change of non-change that comes back around is blunted by a persistent sense of linearity and absence. Some things we’d just as soon not repeat, if only we were granted some insight as to how to avoid such; notions of the chance of a last chance at something enduring come with their own pressure; and sometimes simply drawing from experience to find a few words to acknowledge enough to build on the next time around. Or in some instances, to set the stage.
I said, “Work to uncover the sublime that comes through the commitment,” knowing full well that I offered a challenge and an opportunity all at once.
In other news:
I laughed like I have not in some twenty-seven years, and made sounds and faces I pulled from those same recesses.
They forgot the cutest little pair of socks behind. They’re on the fridge for the time being. We may not return them.
I showed my son my favorite place on the river to not catch fish.
The mules make their presence known a couple times a day.
We all have colds now.
I’m getting a haircut tomorrow.
R of home game fame is getting married next week; Saturday is a poker bachelor party.
We’re digging up a few spuds from the compost pile.