Gaapii

by Mindi Mooyenh

Sipping my coffee this weird, wet morning. There's a stillness in the air, undercut only by the buzzing if a wayward mosquito or two. The sky is fat and grey, broody looking. The air is warm and balmy and the promise of autumn is everywhere. Sugar maples are turning their leaf to vermillion, magenta and a purple so lovely, it is unnamed. The reeds are turning golden and the poplar and birch are starting their showy turn of color, as well. This is a time of work, this is a time of pause. This is a time for gathering thought as well as gathering. Soon the fish will start their fall run, spurred on by the cold waters, sooner still the deer will be fat and ready, the ducks too. But for now it's time to make rice and gather the end of the summer gifts. Nature changes her wardrobe frequently through the year and I am but a bit player and stage hand in the whole affair, no other theatre so vivid and beautiful, no other stage as wonderfully back dropped, and all the while, I wait in the wings for my parts to be played, momentarily. Each line remembered, each song and verse. And in each retelling, a story more epic and living, mankind as the audience and Nature in her grand divinity, the storied player, no need to rehearse.
 

 

 

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