Time flies, it’s commonly said.
Probably that’s because a human life, though often glorious, naturally runs short.
I prefer to think time counts and keeps counting, with or without us.
That way, magnificent existence isn’t falsely reduced just to suit puny human arrogance.
Bypassing the ungodly mess our collective ego has made of a natural world that'd perennially sustain us, had we given it even half the chance.
Regardless, the land and everything else dependent upon it knows exactly what time it is.
As each day shrinks, shadows deepen.
What typically goes to edge season seed, does.
Including me, apparently.
But that’s a different story, at this moment neither here nor there.
Because last night, our Bush Katydid sang through 1st light of dawn beneath a rising crescent moon. While as I write this, White Sulphur butterflies dance upward together toward a brilliant sun.
Soon enough, the 1st hard frost will come. It’s
inevitable.
After that, there’ll be no more room for doubt.
No matter how unseasonably pleasant the weather might prove today.
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