As the end of August draws near, nights are cooler, and the relentless chant of cicadas in the cottonwoods, and scrub oak, seems thin and lacking in enthusiasm.
A cool breeze stirs the pines, and slides slyly past to conjure in me some primitive excitement..an almost overwhelming need to....to.......to be off .. following in it's wake....yes...to fly away.
Although I love geese and sometimes I'm as silly as one, I'm not equipped to migrate. From where does this vague sense of unease, arive to plague me each autumn? And why? Will they someday define some gene as the one passed on to me from my nomadic ancestors? Like Mole and Mr. Toad from Kenneth Graham's Wind in the Willows, I'm ripe for change and adventure.
A cool breeze stirs the pines, and slides slyly past to conjure in me some primitive excitement..an almost overwhelming need to....to.......to be off .. following in it's wake....yes...to fly away.
Although I love geese and sometimes I'm as silly as one, I'm not equipped to migrate. From where does this vague sense of unease, arive to plague me each autumn? And why? Will they someday define some gene as the one passed on to me from my nomadic ancestors? Like Mole and Mr. Toad from Kenneth Graham's Wind in the Willows, I'm ripe for change and adventure.
Some garlic chives have naturalized on the top tier of my neglected rock garden,
where bees work busily among the frothy umbels.
A head count confirmed that the Cooper's Hawk was unlucky with it's chicken hunting. It hung around for a couple of hours before departing on other business. Chickens are not as dumb as people think they are.
