Tis the season…

Tis the season for growing compost piles, for weeding unwanted seeds from the stockpile, for starting a wishlist for next year and reflecting on the season’s passing.

I think it may be the last year for the raised beds. And I think I’ll help them go. They harbor ants nests I can’t beat back or cajole away. They permit sweet potatoes to bunker under the walls, lessening the harvest and sowing the next generation of ground cover in the same allowance.

But to do so would require remapping the irrigation installed by our predecessors. And that is not in the time budget between now and the early sowings of spring when we’ll try for more peas and beans and carrots and things.

So perhaps another year, I’ll eke out of these tiring lengths, and perhaps next winter we’ll be moving, or the kids will be old enough to require less of my ship’s side to barnacle upon which will both ease and sadden my heart, and also increase the time budget a smidge, methinks. We shall see.

So the beds will rest, the compost will grow, and the caterpillars will continue to feast like royalty upon my cauliflower dreams.


A historical day.

As is each day. 

Today, the Cows of the Morning Commute were out. Rubbing, pressing, pushing against the post. The post of the sign to sell their land. The post offering opportunity. The post offering loss.

The sun is crisp, the air is light, the life in the leaves sparkles. 

The flooding fields by the single duck’s pond shimmer in the dew. There’s a man by a goal post. He’s… He’s… What is he…

He’s playing the trombone. In the light, crisp, sparkling air, hundreds of feet under where the highways meet, a man is playing a trombone. 

I long to hear his tune.