Tired, well satisfied with the Friday evening activities and slightly loggy of thought and dis-inclined to movement, I watch the lower right corner of the monitor for the creeping calculator of minutes added to the day.
Thus far it eases its way from 430 to 559 and from the corner of my eye I think, believe, a hint of blue taints the Eastern reaches. I’m not happy with the progression, and I accept the un-ending cycle for what it is – unmanageable by human kind.
I fuss and fight with useless thoughts of dread. Today will be the 53’d day, maybe more, it couldn’t be less, of triple digits temperatures. Already I steel myself to the creeping rise, which I know that by five this evening will have the young brown dog huffing in the scanty shade, thankful for the water puddle I make for him each morning around nine or ten.
I muse over the political scene, known vaguely by me, and wonder how the people shed themselves of a political tyrant that uses backdoor means to gain a nefarious end. I wonder of people living in concrete canyons can attempt dictation of rules to those in the open, and realize the means is the same in the open as in the canyons – free money, in spite of the onerous label of Mail Box Farmer.
Think I; of what use the Eco-Terrorist to an eco-movement if they burn the very shaped wood from the trees they deem to protect, long after the tree is gone and is awaiting usefulness once again after its death. Considering all the petro chemicals it took to bring the tree to its final shape and place, the winds swirling warm and cold ash which once given up by the winds, will settle and become part of the soils nourishing both other trees and shrubs and, possibly, through cultivation, people.
These early morning things can frighten. Sometimes even entertain. And are generally of little value, in either form, because one vote, at times, looks as futile as an Arabian peaceful protest where the masses leave their guns at home and the authorities invite the mass into the gun sights (if indeed the sights are considered in the target rich environment).
Lightly skimming the mind picture of white shirt clad masses raising impotent fist in defiance, the thoughts jump to the government policies that aid and comfort the up-risings, and wonder, for what purpose.
Is it wrong or incorrect for an individual to speculate why ones government would overturn in a few months a system in place for hundreds of years? To vie against, for what reason – and one must consider the struggle has roots somewhere. Is it to weaken the other to impose other attitudes?
Looking directly now, not from the corner of the eye, the sky is definitely blue; the first two cups of coffee gone, and the days breezes warm, even now, pre-true dawn, I lay aside my muses, stretch my shoulders and know the chores await.
It is still difficult to reconcile the difference and the sameness, and still understand war and challenges exist. Over the strangeness of things.
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From the reaches,
Ten Mile
Ten's space 