On Setting Winter Soils
The trees all diet to shed their leafy pounds for the coming funeral season, and a slight drizzle, nearly unnoticeable save for the occasional stray drop to find my glasses in its gravitational path, sets a tiny background rhythm to the sounds of a sleepy city Friday morning. The lunch hour approaches, but the ominous looming that is a thick pile of slate grey clouds pulling themselves up over the horizon and the crisp bite the air is chewing on the back of my neck, flossing it’s windy smile with the standing hairs there, tells me that a new Winter is on us.
Greenhouse Winter, Future Winter, not quite Nuclear Winter but that parade might not be far away. The polo-sweater-jacket combo I’d affixed myself inside proved too much for the temperature, and the leaves are still thick. For all intents and purposes, this is a common late Autumn – rainy, all things harvest and celebratory are over, and in our MiddleYear we’re just waiting for the snow. Christmas has taken a backseat to the fuzzy soft my brain is trying to get itself into, having spent all too much of the last month sharping edges and cutting migranes into my head. But Autumn it’s not. I can’t explain why, but we’re in the early pangs of Winter. The morning sickness of it, before anyone is even sure that it’s happening but short of orbital abortion, we’re on the path and we’ll be pushing snowflakes into tiny corners they don’t belong and will defiantly melt and freeze and thaw and freeze and slip and wreck and completely conquer us all out of.
Just as we slip into the door of our brunchy crepe affair the big greys let it drop and the outside world is wishing it would have helped Noah. I opt for water where the boy chooses juice.
Up Next: Swinging, Stabbing, Slicing, Smiling