When the Tea Becomes Tepid It's Time to Go

Journal 10.27.25

I’m driving along as I do moseying down country roads and the landscape fills me with wonder as it does. Red and yellow and orange and crimson deaths shimmer off trees in breeze. I pass the ongoing soy harvest. I pass rolls of hay. I pass towering stacks of hay—a cooper’s hawk is resting there. And I pass Guernsey girls sunbathing in pasture. I’ve ventured off the beaten path and am rewarded: a pair of bald eagles by the roadside take flight at the rumbling of my tires. And we soar together for a time before they head into the clearing. And I too break free from the canopy of trees and see Canadian geese in flying-v above the sorghum field. Yes soon the shotguns will sing. As my rooster crows. Frost will be on the grass and my warm breath. I’m looking forward to it… though the fire burns strong within me now fueled by Autumn morning air.

And inside I have smoked black tea and the wood oven crackles and pops and the week is hanging from me waiting to be released and windswept to return to Time. And I could let it go yes I could and will though how lovely this is sitting here in quiet and peace before I have failed a dozen times. But when the tea becomes tepid it’s time to go.