August, die she must, minute by minute.   The hour, in July, appointed for tea now lingers too late for dinner to be prepared before dark.   Rush I must to get myself fed without burning some light.  Like most of my birds, I prefer to be active in sunlight; as the days shorten I slowly become overwhelmed by routines and chores, my working hours constricted. Imagine how most birds feel–fewer minutes each day in which to find their requisite calories.

I say “most” because though Hawk’s hunting days are waning, Owl’s are on the rise.  Owl looks forward to the equinox when time-dominion tilts in favor of Owl.   Owl pities Hawk, who had hunting good when the weather was gentle and pleasant.  When hunting is hard, and most necessary, Owl has time.   Hawk shrugs.  Always, somehow, Hawk, also, stays alive.

In Owl-time I will have to attune myself to other productivities, the less active and quickly satisfying.  The obelisk will be grimier but in dark Winter I’ll hardly be able to tell.  As long as I can keep the window clean, to let what light there is in.  I’ll remember how to attune to other chores, tasks of the mind cupping itsself around a dim candle, confronting cold space, recalling how to preserve, a word which looks an awful lot like “persevere”.  I will remember how to persevere.

Why do I worry for winter?  Now is summer, late summer, to be sure, but the flowers all blowsy, gold, purple and white, the colors of royalty.  August is an august time, leonine.  Nature, regally bedecked, processes nobly towards decline.

These days are pleasure-full.

I just paused to appreciate that fact–NOW is pleasure-FULL–and bright crow-who-is-parrot (I’m so sick of parrot, repeating himself), landed on the sill, dropping a red feather.

I like collecting the birds’ feathers.  I pick it up.

It is not a feather.

Parrot-who-is-Crow brought me a leaf.

The first autumn leaf.

–The Odalisque