Thoughts tumble noisily then pool and reflect as we sit beside the water in the autumn sunshine. Days are shortening quickly. And soon our pants and sleeves will be lengthening. The days are numbered when we will bask with so much skin. To absorb the warmth so directly. The days. We count the number. But we do not know how long we will be counting. We will only know when to stop. And put on warmer clothes.
There are fruits and berries and pods and nuts and burrs and feathered wisps. From plants and trees and bushes and grasses and flowers. That have gone to seed. This is not the time for blossoms. Though there are a few of those, too. Late bloomers. Like me. Or so I hope. Late, I think. Not gone to seed. But too late? I wonder. And I do not know.
Some leaves are yellow. Some gold, red, brown, tan. And many still green. Preparing, perhaps, for this end. This coming cold. Which is not an end at all. But a turning. And not even a corner. Instead, the rotation of a wheel of seasons. Of centuries. Of empires. That rise and fall.
Crisp, brittle, woody, rigid. These are the textures of the season. When the work of building is done. And the time comes to let go. To back away. To let the machines of summer grow quiet. To fall into disuse. To tumble down. To lay upon the earth. Ruin. Waste. Yet to lay in anticipation. In expectation. In hope. That the wheel will turn. That the cold will turn. That the days will shorten and turn. That the ruin and waste will turn. Toward what. I do not know.
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