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September 17, 2016
Now it is five days down. September 08, it was three. A trend?
All the days melt from sunrise to sunset into each other in a uniform blend. Too much introspection, too much thought. Live and let go.
Lack of sleep is killing words waiting for expression. Leg cramps torment a body already pushed too hard. Ah, to rest in one uniform night of worthy sleep. Every night. Dreams are made of this.
In another vein, where blood pumps words into a vast tank, waiting for use, there is a thought of composing a circle of employees’ descriptive attributes. For example; Fruit Loops, a description of someone, Driver, is another, as is Chaos, Speedo, another, Corkscrew, and on.
There are more waiting for an opportunity. Lockless, Late Again, Braggart, Bean. What is left to do is a description of character and a few quotes from each.
Watching people as a relaxed past-time. How much they reveal by what they say without thinking, or by what they wear, or how they present themselves, even for work. Do not mis-understand these words, but the amount of tattoos among this crew is astounding.
Ink on your skin can be a declaration of purpose and belief. Many, from this perspective, have not, it appears, to have put much thought into such a permanent statement. Perhaps it is a reason this one has never inked. No definitive or clear expression can be that concrete in the flow of time.
Never was much for people. Most of them anyway, always more of a one on one than in groups. So it is.
But wait...the meadow at Big Springs spreads the grass high and low, as yellow flowers give it one last color before dying. In the fading sun light, colors mute, wind spreads seeds across the land, while an azure blue sky as a dome of protection caps this small space of peace.
The lone female mallard hangs on at the pond, preening, drinking, resting on a rock. The fading light kisses the long and bent grass, as stalks flay their hair, getting ready to release progeny to chance. Cattails die and burst hoping to catch a favorable wind. Insects flitter and fly in a confused state of chilled air. Fall is on the threshold.
A woman and her dog parallel our foot steps on the forest trail, about 50 yards behind. Sizing her up from a distance, she is only doing her duty with her dog. Missing the beauty, not in tune with this chapel of nature. Her hurried steps betray her intent; ‘Do your duty, lets go, and leave this place.’
This writer’s slow measured pace throws off her schedule. No friendly gestures or welcome signs cross her face. So much information garnered from a few quick glances
Will the trend of fewer writings between the days stretch further into the future? Does it matter? Yes, and no.
I am grateful for your visit. Thank you.