The winds tell us that time is an endless circling. It comes clean and fresh, with no beginnings or endings. No year is complete save the individual tales of birth and survival. To witness the progress of the passing seasons is to become aware of the pulsing flow of the blood of life in its entirety.
Mid-January brings our world into full retreat, a time for man and bird, for beast and brute to be put to the ultimate test to see whether earth’s inhabitants have fully learned the lessons of basic survival.
From the woodpile just outside our frosted window panes rises the raucous scolding of carrion crows perched high amid a copse of naked treetops, their feathers shimmering a rainbow of blacks in the pale sun of mid-winter skies, their blackness as dark as souls aloft in midnight skies. The crows’ survival tells of the test that comes with mid-winter’s dwindling reserves. Then comes the flashing of snow-white feathers stark against the blue-gray feathers as a chattering of hungry jaybirds sweeps down to dig through autumn’s debris of rotting leaves where lies a treasure trove of fallen acorns
The season’s dreams and hopes are but pages of time. There is an order to all things: The tides ebb and flow, seasons begin, move on and end without regard to the dreams of man and his aspirations.
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A year knows no calendar. It punches no time clock. Tomorrow brings an awakening sun in the east, and the sunset in the west speaks of history.