An English In Kentucky


















January 16th 2011    Tim Candler

    Temperatures soaring into the thirties.  Good chances of rain,  and what professionals call 'mixed precipitation' in our future.  Could be snow, or sleet, or ice or more rain.   But at least a year always knows how old it is.

     For our part we have estimates and averages, and these depend upon things like exercise, food  and place of birth. Years have precision because they know exactly the date and time of their passing.  They also exist in isolation from each other. One at a time.  Each a singularity.

     I imagine this year remembers the seconds of its birth, it can feel the little touch of goodbye from last year.  And now it is looking around at the nature of its existence.  Everyday a new adventure, bright eyed and skipping like a young thing. 

     I don't think the year itself understands seasons.  Seasons belong to being that experiences more than one year.   So while I might wonder what our summer will be like, this year already has a summer and a winter.

    The intemperate might argue against this position.  But I take comfort from the knowledge that 1952 was not 1952's fault. 

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