How those days stacked up like a pile of leaves! How you wished you could save some, and how many looked the same. They had a way of regenerating each year. How the days unfurled unexpected and just hung there in the light. And fell and gathered and hid off to the sides on the garden beds. How the days withered and took longer than you’d think they would to fade. And you didn’t notice so much when they were gone, the trees just went bare and let in more light. A pale, charmless, winter’s light.

But today it got near 60 degrees, warm enough I could crack the windows and cut the grass. I gathered fallen twigs and kindling and made the first fire of the year, outside. The elemental act of building a fire. And how would we do, left to ourselves to fend in the wild? No better than a domesticated dog.

Categories: inspiration, microblogging, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, existentialism, journal writing, Memoir, mindfulness, pacific northwest, prose, short form, William Pearse writer, writing