The last cucumber plucked, tomato plants pulled, hops and squash cut, seeds spread to dry. The wild turkeys feed on windfall apples and pears along the neighborhood streets, neglected imperfect fruit delicious in its fermenting, and strut into traffic. Days are shorter now. From raw harvest to measure, the Scales turn downward.
Rain came, early; the end of summer underlined by lightning, as if there might be any mistaking the change of season.
Thunder and roiling rising cloud armadas duel and pitch with cannon. A strike fried the wifi router and blew circuits, sent the dog under the bed, and me below deck away from the barrage on the southern windows.
Balance is never struck. I wonder at the phrase. Balance is a momentary pose found in vigilance and constant mediation, an asana of breath and intention. Was there ever a time of perfection? Sitting out on the cider house deck at sunset laughing while a train whistle blows in the distance. Perhaps. The moment dissolves into new tableau. It’s said one might balance an egg on end at the exact moment of the equinox.
Atmospheric rivers are relatively long, narrow regions in the atmosphere – like rivers in the sky – that transport most of the water vapor outside of the tropics. These columns of vapor move with the weather carrying an amount of water equivalent to the average flow at the mouth of the Mississippi River.
The Pineapple Express blew into northern California and Oregon seven inches ago, tepid and drenched, rain dropping like coconuts, a whiff of the tropical between shower curtains, precursor to that dank cannabis strain smacking of fresh apple and mango, with a taste of pineapple, pine, and cedar, namesake of the river in the sky. It’s tepid rain, night and day, relentless. Mercy doesn’t mind venturing out to roll in the puddles so much as I swelter in a zipped rain jacket while rain from the islands streams over my lips. Flood warnings are in effect for the Siuslaw, coast fork of the Willamette, and the Mohawk.
Ben, the crazy copper Brittany Dad rescued a year ago, lived to see his second birthday only by sheer red chance of mischief and puckish soul, for such are the whims of the dog daemons favoring the foolhardy.
Ben climbs ten feet into a tree following squirrel scent and bails out again when the trail plays out, straight down, diving like a sockeye. He escapes through a breath between wooden planks to parade through the old neighborhood, weaving across streets oblivious as a carnival reveler to cars, cops, and guns. For blessed are the ginger and the rufous, ragged cheerful children of Pan, to see another spring.