Autumn 2021, Earth

The north side of Kamiak Butte between Lughnasadh and Samhain, it is still three weeks before the autumn season starts on the solar calendar.  The forest floor is turning to dry yellows.  The trails are dust.

The caterpillars are spinning silk in the trees.

The light is growing harsher in its highlights of the gray.

The harvest is rolling up outside the shadow of the tree line.

A withered and brittle field of chickpeas is left standing.  I break open a few pods to see how the crop fairs.  I can remember breaking open a few pods about ten years back when I was walking the edges of the city cemetery.  I had never seen garbanzo beans in the field before.  Those then were twice the size, maybe even half again that size than the ones I took home in my pocket to measure.

About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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