The system of seasons; spring, summer, fall, winter, isn’t nearly detailed enough for this Year of the Typewriter. It’s like language has rungs missing on the ladder.
The path of time has turned from autumn of coloured leaves, of brisk winds, welcome rain to a more biting time….
This week rain turned to snow then back to freezing rain.
It’s a blacker season. It’s decay. It’s punk rock fall. Look how this leaf went dark and got a tattoo of a leaf on its bicep.
It took a little more steel to tie my boots on this morning. Even stepping out, I see escape everywhere.
Here with the licorice ferns climbing the trees to try to get to the light.
Shutters closing here on the ferns.
The honey mushroom are slowing. Here, like the ferns, collecting snow.
Back home from the big green. Big coffee. Big fire.