It happened too soon, the season of repose, I turned in too soon
Me on that ridge alone in the summer by the mountain with no one around for miles
Coming upon a buck then a bear, my voice echoing across the meadows and rocks
Me on that ridge climbing ever higher to a rock outcropping like the prow of some ship
Me inching closer to the edge to the gaping drop below, a messy fall in glacial moraine, a dirty gum line with cracks of blue
It happened too soon, how the season closed:
Already opting for afternoon naps by the swinging clock’s arm, the shuffling of papers in another room, a distant motor buzzing like some large unwelcome fly
It happened too soon: you can quarter all of life into chunks with a knife, how they flop and unfold in your hands
They are not your hands that do the quartering, we are quartered too | skinned, cored, scrapped, turned in
Bill Pearse 
I’m hoping ‘srapped’ points to the cycle of life within the environment … on a recycling basis.
~
Be well and do good.
DD
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Yeah was thinking that DD, nature doesn’t waste right? Thank you kind sir.
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And the seasons, they go ’round and ’round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return, we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go ’round and ’round and ’round
In the circle game
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Is that a song or a Bruce original?
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I wish.
One of Joni’s.
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mmm … has me thinking about another sort of cliff that I am surely approaching … cannot yet peer over edge but I sense that edge proximity … each day draws me closer … I trust the pending view will be so alluring I will gladly leap! (When my time comes.)
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It sure is mysterious and probably better to consider from a distance, if at all!
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