Reports on the anatomy of my unusual seasonal conditions and disorders are open for further investigation, no comments, questions, or debate. In the thick of my autumnal golden years, the jury’s still out as the judge takes a nap. The days are always numbered like decades-old, discarded calendars hanging on abandoned walls, but who’s counting? No court in the land would dispute the number of facts in my case. There’s no arguing with time. It’s relative to how long and fast it comes and goes. You can watch the clock tick off as she goes round and round. Where it stops spinning, nobody knows.
The case for this season is as cut and dry as the October cornfields. Yet another harvest season brings in the crop's bounty at the crossroads of the old, older, and oldest conveniences. Every year moves faster away from young hearts. Not necessarily the wisest or best of the seasons. I've got no truck with time. It’s ripe, though sour, and has mellowed with age. We like to call it that bittersweet time of year when we get rid of the old and bring in the new. It’s getting darker now, and I'm late in waiting.
The dead leaves fly to and fro, and crisp feathers float sideways through midair. Little reminders of what was once and what’s still to come. The dry, brittle, brown little nothings that covered the trees now litter the ground. Across my field of vision, and always standing out in a field. There’s soy over there, tobacco over here, and corn aplenty. I’ll remember the short and long terms of forgetting and forgiving. To remember this day as the years pass by, overlooked in the past as it was. As you were. The cows and sheep are indifferent to the mules and goats.
Still, we strain to recall the final days of our time here. It’s a stretch that so long ago I wandered around upon this beautiful plot of sodden soil. Some jealous gods' little green acres are so insignificant compared to the cemeteries that hold them all. Perhaps that’s why they throw a handful of dirt into the grave atop the casket when the holy preacher man proclaims ashes to ashes and dust to dust. A clod of moist earth to signify a larger-than-life story, to encompass the entire world’s sad tales of lost souls.
A planet of wasted lives. The woeful years don’t add up. The worms and flies don’t mind too much. The stars align with each other's celestial bodies as objects of desire take on human form in constellations. There are plenty of rooms in space. You could get lost in the secret sauce of cosmic stuff like a rocket shot into the stratosphere, exploding like fireballs into the forever night. Sparks will fly. The Roman candle burns at both ends way too fast. Sorry, time runs out. Don’t forget to wind down your watch before daylight savings time. Another eclipse is coming.
If you could please everyone by helping yourself, then proceed with your forensic investigations. Let’s cut the meat off the bone of the matter and make sure the evidence presented to all parties involved is correct. Put to rest any fears about doubt or denial of the naked truth. There’s no justice for innocent victims tortured by hatred toward our fellow creatures. Slaughtered in their beds when sleeping. Scythe-swinging reapers in the middle of a desperate situation. Women and children are not immune. Do you condone the beheading of innocent babies? It always seems to happen this time of year.
Is it normal to have trouble breathing outside in the chilly mornings? Into the fall nights when the weather hits the dewy, icy ground, to see your breath in the freezing cold air. It’s breezy out there and so invigorating. You feel so alive!