The luck of the falling leaves, the totem of the flight of the owl just overhead right after he is mentioned. The cat hunters are deceptively sweet, still young and nimble, chasing a chipmunk toy around the yard before being thankfully interrupted. A warm fire and nice cherry wood strategically stacked in a crosshatch burns while we stretch our creative minds for song lyrics: “She’s got dirty boots and can’t forget her roots . . .” and what should come next? I was not expecting a songwriting session with my cousins around this fire.
Time passes too quickly and we get to enjoy the fruits of life in the meantime as well as detest the trash and muck we discard in hopes that we can process the bad and move on to greener pastures and better lighting after such irresponsibility and great loss, awareness, and awakening. Some of the pain of loss will not go away I have been told, but it is too early to tell. Thankfully, in the moment, there is Pecan pie and wine to smooth the rough edges of loss. Pecan pie and wine make great company for us, indeed, but not Coors. God NO!