Sometimes life wants to talk all at once to me and, unlike memories, listening takes time. A million memories may flood all at once at the scent of a tar road or the sight of a crescent moon, but sometimes I can't hear life's soft soliloquies and whispered asides when they seem to come all at once. I am sorry for that, and, I forgive myself for that. The notes and chords, colors and textures, fragrances and flavors I miss in a day, will, I hope, return when I have more time to entertain them.
About this time every year I must get rid of all the leaves that pile up between the fences. I used to rake them, as I did as a boy, and pile them in high mounds and let the boys jump in them as we have in the past, as I did as a boy. But, I don't anymore. It is an unspoken but immutable fact that leaves make awful landing pads, you know it, I know it, and yet...
And two young warriors came and battled in the golden setting sun:
This morning the wind was whispering up high so, before the paths were blown into memory, I went out and took a few more pictures as the sun came up: