Saturday, October 30, 2004
Walking in the woods, the wind is blowing fiercely, the tree tops swaying overhead in wide arcs, and the leaves almost all down, leaving the stark, lonely branches against the sky. But the golden rod has turned prophet, forecasting the snow that will cover the weed heads, branches, and nakedness of nature in general... soon. When is soon? All times are soon. Is this cheesey, or what?