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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