The analogy of "wood on the porch" is
apt description for a cool morning on the last day of August. The
strawberries think so too. The older strawberries are following their
typical routine of demonstrating classic symptoms of healthiness in the
wake of what must be their moment of "wood on the porch".
Walking by their long time home I am aware of the debate. Seasonal
change requires adjustment beyond a move back to wearing trousers, and
wondering where the overcoat might be hiding. And I suppose in many
places death is on that menu too.
In past time, fall
was busy with garden work. The tidy up after the happy mess of
summer. I'd rake leaves for days, and with the knowledge of a long
workless winter ahead often wonder what the difference was between piles
of leaves and some of those breakfast cereals the well adjusted consume
regularly. A little sugar and milk, and we'd not want for
food. But mostly people wanted this resource removed, so we'd burn
it to entertain the fire department, or shovel it onto the pickup truck
and let a speedy drive home dispose of it.
The friend who lives too far away passed
along a report of a Praying Mantis that caught a Humming Bird, and ate parts
of it. A somber reminder of the actual world we live in.
Here of course in the dreamscape, a mind
that wallows can come away frightened and then adventure is gone as the
world becomes dour. And I am guilty of it. If every day could be
just like today, I would never curse again. I would follow Zoroaster,
regret nothing and prove Nietzsche false.
In the end though it's better to curse
like a Scotsman and then do the necessary things.