A picture says a thousand words. Things have been so busy of late I’ll leave the seasonal photos to pen this post.
A phosphorescent-fingered dawn. Doesn’t quite slide off the tongue like Homer’s rosy-fingered one. A golden conflagration of light nonetheless. A new day in the act of being born. Another in a seemingly endless series.
After the heavy lifting of my last two posts I thought I would brighten things up a bit. Joyce and Miller are all very well, but that was a long time ago now. Seventy-five to one hundred years; that’s three to four generations.
Seminal to Life and the Omphalos Cafe.
There seems to be so little of it these days, occupied as they are with work, family, the school parent council, Sonny-boy’s first parent teacher interview. Continuity of thought and reflection is impossible. I lurch from one task to the next, at times inwardly crying out for quiet.
Time slips between our fingers. Whether we manage to grab ahold of it or not is a principle theme here.
Apples carpeting the ground beneath the tree in the backyard tell the tale of the season, as does the dawn, which is now two to three hours later than it was in early summer.
Change is in the air and on the ground.
Out in the countryside the fields, a few short weeks ago groaning beneath a heavy crop, are mostly harvested and bailed. A tawny stubble is all that remains.
I feel fortunate to have the opportunity to experience the changing season both within the confines of the city and without. The connection is a little less tenuous.
Lastly, here are a few photos from the tree line, up top the Banff gondola. There is the phenomenal majesty of the mountains on a pristine day, and then a few of the trees, exposed to the elements on the peak but doggedly clinging to the rock.
The seeds of life are everywhere, stubbornly germinating, implacably intent on fulfillment.
Hopefully next week I regain a modicum of Time once more.
Cayman Thorn said:
Time is a thieving scoundrel, alright. Glad you were able to snap a few shots of it getting away.