It is early October. I'm wearing a long sleave shirt and holding a glass of cabernet (that sadly I neither grew nor vinted) but still the evening air is nipping at my skin. There a a stillness, but a breeze so light, perhaps a single knaut. It is more of a coldness on the right side of my face than a draft. Even the black silouettes of maples and poplars against the dwidling western sky are still in the post-sunset twighlight. I stand here, grounding myself to nature, feeling my inner core sway to the earth like a water-lily facing the warm sun on a cool april day.
In the garden I see not the itchy sculptures of dried sunflowers, but the remaining seeds the birds have left behind. A promise of the future... Of next season's harvest that might fetch exorbitant returns in an over-priveledged urban farmers market. I see not the twigs & stems of black iron weeds, but the fodder and forage for my daylight pulletts that will soon bear free-range organic eggs, high in oleic aciddy goodness & low in hormonal, anitbiotic maddness. I see not the despair of a plot gone to seed, the the promise of fresh organic matter ready to feed the future. I see elderly grandparents crying and praying for their children's children.
There is a sliver of crescent glowing moon, slung higher in its invisible hammock than last night. Across the abutting marsh, there are not misquitoes, but rather honking, migratory Canadian geese preparing their courage for twightlight flight. I will wait for their magestic presence to pass over me in a flying "V", almost close enough to reach. I won't need to wait long. There is nothing here in the season of life that is long... Although it may take forever to arrive, its fleeting is always too soon.
Seamus McRagnall
In the garden I see not the itchy sculptures of dried sunflowers, but the remaining seeds the birds have left behind. A promise of the future... Of next season's harvest that might fetch exorbitant returns in an over-priveledged urban farmers market. I see not the twigs & stems of black iron weeds, but the fodder and forage for my daylight pulletts that will soon bear free-range organic eggs, high in oleic aciddy goodness & low in hormonal, anitbiotic maddness. I see not the despair of a plot gone to seed, the the promise of fresh organic matter ready to feed the future. I see elderly grandparents crying and praying for their children's children.
There is a sliver of crescent glowing moon, slung higher in its invisible hammock than last night. Across the abutting marsh, there are not misquitoes, but rather honking, migratory Canadian geese preparing their courage for twightlight flight. I will wait for their magestic presence to pass over me in a flying "V", almost close enough to reach. I won't need to wait long. There is nothing here in the season of life that is long... Although it may take forever to arrive, its fleeting is always too soon.
Seamus McRagnall
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