With the weather getting cold and the trail almost forgotten, I rest under a blanket aside the big brown dog, waiting for sleep, and to digest the day in dream. When I returned from the North to this fine and familiar city, the Mimosa in the front yard had lost it's leaves. The city had replaced the sidewalk and torn the roots.
Before I left in the spring the tree had not begun to bud. I recall watching the seed pods cluster all last winter; the seed that would not fall or be blown away. The neighbor said the blossoms this summer had been so thick they covered the road like snow. Just a few days before my return the blossoms and leaves dropped off. I hope the spring will revive the tree but with less than an inch of rain in months, hope is the one certain thing.
The maple by the window has lost most of it's leaves while the oak still drops acorns, a bumper harvest for the squirrel and chipmunk. The frost has come just once, still awaiting the big freeze, the hard cold, the winter bitters.
One day next year I will begin again the cycle and leaf.
The trail forgotten. WG and Nice (the dog). "Those who wonder are not lost."
Inspiration sometimes must come from within. Alone.