Composed for a metaphor of the setting sun.
Such an islandy thing to do.
Friends. Beach. Fire. Ocean. Sky.
The end of summer.
Presented no alternative,
A small group of us welcomed Autumn at a favorite beach that’s walking distance from the house. We offered heathens’ prayers to the sun as it fled our view, that it would be kind to us in the coming months. I doubt our pleas will make an iota of difference, but hell, they sounded and felt good, paired with a beverage.
These islands are temperate during winter. A steady 45 Fahrenheit is the norm, save for an occasional rogue snowstorm that hurls snowflakes sideways and strands our cars at the top of steep, icy driveways we don’t dare attempt. It’s very, very beautiful when it is white here; perhaps because that isn’t very often.
Our September campfire was warm and unnecessary on this balmy evening. It was also a poetic metaphor for the wood stoves that will heat our houses in the coming darker, colder nights. As small puffs of its sweet smoke rose, deer, foxes and many, many… did I mention MANY rabbits watched from behind the tall grass.
With organic farmers and fishermen as pals, I eat embarrassingly well here. Our picnic meal was the result of fertile gardens and good lures. Plus, my sole talent at these gatherings: a keenly trained hand at the corkscrew. Since I have almost no clue as to how to cook food in a manner presentable to people I actually like, at least I’m good for something.
Awaiting its star appearance was our guest of honor, plucked from the waters in front of us not very long before.
Rural still life with salmon, wine and chainsaw company ball cap.
As the summer’s final sun kissed the rocks, an 8 year old girl happily sprawled across eons of geology as she communed with the changing tides. And a 52 year old woman was overcome with gratitude for days like this. In nature’s moment of perfect balance between the day and the night, I ponder the balance of love, art, work and play in my life. I smile at my own, very personal equinox of existence.