The grass is so dry now it’s mostly brown, a brown you would call golden if you looked at it right. And what’s to stop us from calling it gold? This stretch of life resigned to a form of living more dead than alive. It could be like that song by Sting from the 90s, fields of gold, a song of longing for a time long gone. To celebrate that time and not see it as a loss, but a new hue from a distance, a different angle. That all these hillsides would go green and then brown again, and with the right frame of mind, someday gold.
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Categories: inspiration, prose, writing
Bill Pearse 
Positive orientation.
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Thanks and yes, hello Keshav and good day to you my friend! Be well, keep positive!
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Interesting angle to look at things.
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Thanks my friend! Love the name of your blog, and the visual life’s a kaleidoscope…good one…
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Separate the wheat from the chaff, the gold from the dross. Well Bill this piece is unusually short but I like it, and I actually like when the grasses, grains, etc. turn a nice golden color. Especially oats, if you ever run across a farm growing that, it really is a beautiful golden shade.
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I wish I could see them there oats Homer! But thank you for the visual and for reading. Happy you like it, seemed a nice pithy meme type thing for a Friday. And the end of July and so on. The grass so dry it’s like one of those scrubbers you use on your feet to remove dead cells.
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I raise my morning toast to you, Bill, whilst wishing for once that I had a bowl Corn flakes before me and a golden spoon to lift in salute.
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Ha ha David! Salute to you and yours, from our nearby lake shore…be well my friend! Thanks for reading.
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I was going suggest this sweet vignette is “uncharacteristically optimistic” but is it? Uncharacteristic, I mean. As someone looking out at a gun-barrel grey sky and driven by krautrock insistence (Stuttgart 1975) I’m unsure whether I can even tell.
But thank you for your writing, and this afternoon’s satisfying catchup.
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Thank you for the catchup and I salute you there with Stuttgart 75. I ought to have another listen to that, along some gun-barrel gray skies which aren’t far in our future either. Staring down the barrel of a gun at that, in fact
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