Autumn

Autumn’s refreshment and quietness. Tops of trees sway a little. Nothing is owed. Just time to be. The jazz playing in the distance is mellow. Time to think. Barely heard barking dog.

Why not? Because you can’t make the time. You can’t see what’s important and what just goes by day, day upon day. It’s Saturday now, and was last week too. And will be again, but will I be again. Will I be here again. Probably.

Pay the bills. Pay the piper who calls the tune. Pay them all, until nothing is owed.

Soft clouds blanket the sky end to end. Shades of grey in ripples. Strong grey-white trunk of the eucalypt and soft sound of leaves. Now birds, light distant song. Not the bitterness of winter neither the harshness of midsummer. It’s Autumn. Nothing is owed.

The fancy of importance flies away. One in nine billion and counting. Dreams are leaves on an Autumn’s day, at once glorious and ready to fall. Winter comes but first there is Autumn. Lazy days when harvest is in and stores put away.

“It’s time to water the vegetables” says missus to me. The last of the stores to be grown and gathered. The water flows, my finger creating the spray. No spraying device lasts. Dollops of water on rich earth. Avoid the leaves.

Image: Autumn Leaves by Kristian Seedorff on Unsplash