one of Summer's singing sounds
Photo by J. Harrington
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Last night we ate dinner on the deck of the Watershed restaurant in Osceola. The sounds of waterfalls and motorcycles, and children playing badminton in the playground below the deck, were condiments that enhanced the meal. Soon, but not too soon we hope, all our meals will be eaten indoors until late next Spring. We're not rushing the seasons. We're acknowledging a recognition that some(?), many(?), all(?) joys can be fleeting makes them even sweeter. It won't be long until the flocks of hummingbirds gathering for their own dinners on our deck have headed South for the Winter. The goldfinches, nuthatches and chickadees have managed to empty a feeder we just filled yesterday. We think that may be a record. Haven't seen any rose-breasted grosbeaks for several days now. Have they moved on already?
goldfinch and nuthatch at feeder
Photo by J. Harrington
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Thunderstorms and rain showers have been occurring in a pattern unanticipated and unforecast, except as part of a general outlook for the area. Summer's humidity continues to clash with Autumn's cool breezes. We think that, rather than get perturbed or frustrated that the weather isn't cooperating with our plans, we will reread parts of Ursula Le Guin's translation of Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching. We'll combine that with a look forward to further enjoying the seasons of pumpkins, apples and all souls.
Another Life
By Howard Moss
There might be the quibble of birds and the swagOf a river and a distantly belledAltar of animals, softly spoken;Certainly cattail, sumac, and fernWould rise from the marshes nearby, revealedIn forms too perfect to envy trees—Not trying for larger and larger keepsakes.Cryptic and subtle green, hedgerowsHiding mysterious deer, the startOf a rabbit, as if towers and cloudsHad suddenly shadowed an open field—These would be the events of the day,Life having narrowed down to pleaseNatural hungers and thirsts, the grassThick at our feet, and, above our heads,The stars, their fireworks anemones.What shall I say of the house? Or you?Only industrious ghosts would knowHow lazily cropping up the viewWould make the impossible possible;Nothing but weekdays would blankly grazeOn time’s oblivious pastures, freeAt last of motive and thought, and we,Becoming ourselves so naturally,Would never say, looking up at the sky,Another life is shining in the sky.
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