On The Cusp Of Fall

So here it is, September.  How about that, dear readers?  A lot of water has passed under the bridge since last September, some of it fresh and sweet, some of it sour and poison.  I'm just glad to still be standing on the bridge, watching the water flow.  Perhaps playing the adult version of "Pooh Sticks", tossing the twigs in the water and seeing which one comes out the other side first.

Yet it doesn't matter all that much, which comes out first.  All the twigs are in the same water, the same river, the same flow toward the ocean.  The analogy holds for me.  I have been swept along by the current and finally learning to relax into it.  I fear the river less than I used to, these days.  It is the journey, after all, that counts.  The currents of the past year have been strong and unpredictable, but never could be said to be boring.


September.  Summer on the cusp of fall.  Having raised my head to the wind, I can smell something in the air.  Something crisp and clean, hinting of fall and the harvest.  Good green things are growing, and I can hardly wait to sink my teeth into their savor.