Photo: RedFeatherWestFolk

Somewhere off in the hedgerow a bird whistles in a long slow whooo. Like some kind of morning owl or loon. Its song hangs in the cool September morning with me like an old friend.

My mind quiets to fully listen. To the loon owl’s morning yarn. To the leaves skittering at my feet. To this land gently humming along in summer’s passing. How fortuitous of me to have a seat at nature’s table. And to be held in such regard that it continues on with its morning routine, naked and yawning here before me. Trust I will not interfere and rather will play my small part as needed, when needed.

A thick orange haze emerges from its mountainside slumber, rising higher it seems with every breath. Its warmth settles, slowly beginning its embrace, enveloping the cool, layering itself on thick like a soaped wash-rag in an evening bath.

Summer ain’t gone just yet. Exhale. Whoo whooo that bird loon cries. In the stillness after, my mind tries to talk at me of less important things. Sssshhh. I whisper back. The land is teaching me about the order of things, about trust through these seasons

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