What would old McGregor say: thoughts in an autumn garden

What would old McGregor say if he wasn’t too busy chasing rabbits and stopped long enough to notice the creeping ebb of color

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If he quit worrying long enough about the straight rows

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And saw that the fruit wasn’t ripe within the fences but rather

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Well beyond them

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What would old McGregor say

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If he noticed the sun angling lower along the horizon igniting truth in long forgotten places

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And secrets waiting to be told

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A clean start.

The first day of autumn. The first day of change, transformation, thanksgiving. Ready-or-not, the cool frost settles on the browning corn, the golden soybeans, the rooftops of silos waiting to be filled.

I don’t think fall signals the end of a season near as much as the beginning, the shorn fields laid bare, the broken stalks pointing heavenward, the earth turned over once more to wait, steadfast, for spring.

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Empty earthquakes.

Do you ever want to hold your hands over your ears and make the noise go away?

Or maybe you prefer the loud beat of drums and the tremble of the ground as guitars and harmonies blend towards the heavens.

But lately I can’t find Him there.

In the noise.

And so I seek a whisper

Soft and warm on my

weary

ears.

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