2012-10-24 - 2:06 p.m.
blink and you'll miss it.
i walk from the bus stop along the highway in the early dawn light. the rutial vegetation is all gone to seed, and colour is creeping up into the leaves. on the way home, i fill a basket with wild persimmons. i will wait for them to go soft and sweet.
summer pitches headlong into autumn, and things all move so very fast. i am at the podium, trying to hide my shaking hands, and then on a rooftop under the starry autumn sky, mesmerized by her gesturing cigarette and specialty cocktail, and then with my head on his shoulder, just like old times.
* * *
there is a working group, and then a conference, and lunch at the picnic table littered with orange-fleshed acorns when the air is suddenly thick with falling leaves.
blink, and you'll miss it.
* * *
reading: madonna of the sleeping cars, by maurice dekobra.
listening to: the wilderness of manitoba - november.
working on: hurtling headlong into the vast and unknown world.
in the garden: planting bunch-flowering tulips and maroon-flowering gavotas.