River Walking

You could not step twriver_rockice into the same rivers; for other waters are ever flowing on to you.

No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.

—Heraclitus, Greek Philosopher,
544 BC – 483 BC

Wading among river stones, nothing underwater is as it appears lifted into the air. Trout fry school and float like dragonflies; every yellow stone is a bright gold nugget. The scale of water is not the same music.

 

k

Harvest Moon

The moon is waxing to full next week, the harvest moon, rising gold to mark the fruit of a year’s labors, a tired garden. The harvest moon follows the autumnal equinox, at least in the northern hemisphere, when the length of darkness outstrips the light, when the crops are stored in cellar and silo, and the gourds and pumpkins are the last shine in the field.

Last night was a celebration and reunion, so I walked the yard gathering a platter to share: Grape leaves and grapes, new winter kale, fingerlings, sweet savory, nasturtium. These framed the Spanish meats, a French cheese, and fresh mozzarella from our local dairy. Nasturtiums are sassy. They taste of pepper.

garden_antipasta

A new season is upon the threshold, still around the corner,  but casting a long shadow, breathing a dew soon to harden to frost.

k