Artistry With Words

A forty degree November day, no rain, no wind, about as good as one can hope for in Rain Central, otherwise known as Olympia, Washington.

A man and his dog, walking down the road.

The shadows are longer in November, football fields in length, and somewhat menacing, although I know not why.  We are heading in the same direction as the sun, westward, young man, go west.  The sun appears tired in that place, at that time, tired like a three a.m. stripper after a four-set night, dragging ass and longing for the welcoming respite of the distant horizon.

Maggie is alert.  Deer up ahead, a couple hundred yards, Maggie notices, the doe notices, no contest in that race, Maggie left with dreams of what could have been, not so unlike most people if you give it a thought, pondering the shoulda beens and the coulda beens, all the while the sun keeps moving towards the west and another day of the nows is rapidly disappearing.

A coyote howls!

Canadian geese overhead, that distinct sound, that distinct flying formation, destination south, crossing over us, right to left, Maggie looks up, no way of knowing what she is thinking, her senses at that point on overload as the last of the maple leaves drift to the ground, giving up the fight for another season.

A chain saw in the distance, an angry growl from the machinery, a concerned growl from Maggie dog, a new sound she will categorize, store for future reference, all part of the learning experience out in the country.

Dew on the fields, shining, sparkling from the sun’s weak rays, seeming to dance for me and my dog, free entertainment for those willing to brave the chill and leave the city’s insanity for an hour or two.

This could be our home soon. We’re thinking about it, sell it all, downsize, buy a tiny home, move it onto the farm.  Seems like the thing to do, you know, pack it all in, say goodbye to the remaining debt, simplify, and embrace the countryside.  Maggie would be thrilled with the move.  Like many Americans, I’m just tired of the race.  There’s no enjoyment to it any longer.  At seventy, a slower pace sounds right, you know?  I’m not talking about putting the brakes on, mind you, because I think it’s important to stay active and have a purpose.  No, I’m just talking about gearing down a bit, enjoying it more, adding to the special memories while there is still time, before that sun reaches the horizon for the last time.

There is still growth to experience. There is still time to become the man I want to be.  I can still raise my consciousness.  I can still accomplish so much.

Random thoughts on this November day, a man and his dog, walking down a country road.

SIDE NOTE:  This is my writing process, in case you were wondering.  I find inspiration while living my life, and I wanted to share part of that process with you.  The simile I used, about the stripper, was part of the process. I’m always trying new similes. That one might find its way into a novel one of these days.

Until then,  I’ll keep on practicing as fall turns to winter here in God’s Country.

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”