Yesterday morning I heard two bird calls. That’s all, just two. All of the body of my life was measured in those few sad sounds.
“Getting old feels like a type of tired that you can’t sleep off.” I tell that to a large Valley Oak that is maybe two centuries old. It ignores me, of course, as it should. It is as I expected.
All of this on the Winter Solstice, when day and night are of equal length.
“Balance is a fine thing, is it not?” I say that to the Oak as well.