Front yard of the House of Owls and Bats, twenty-five, September, 2010 CE, Gregorian calendar, two days after the full moon, the month of Hoh, 4708 at 1533...
I have lived in the place Spanish conquistadors called colorful-and not just for the autumn colors-thirty-four of the thirty-eight years I've been alive-let's not dwell on the southern bit here in context, shall we?-and I've never seen a dandelion so late in the year. Even and especially here at over ninety-one hundred feet. There are those who deny the world's climate is changing, to which, I wonder what bullshit rationalization they'd make to this observation. Like doomsday zealots, when called out upon their mythology, what excuses would be said to, like a balm over a sucking chest wound, to supposedly make it all better?
Color me curious...
My personal Kilimanjaro. The weather seems to be holding oh so well. A seed of an idea starts to germinate; Father Mountain, what are you doing in the next few days? I might try for a visit. Brew some tea, neh?...
Even the tourists have remarked the aspens have not fully turned. They speak of how hot and dry it has been down below. Everyone seems amazed and frightened, at least for the moment, at the weather.
Part of me wonders if this is not the beginning. A voice in my skull speaks of by the time I am forty-five-seven years away-that the weather here won't so much different that of the metroplex's here and now. I am not convinced that's the whisper in my ghost, or just a supposition. I am hiding and waiting, just watching the observed factors. I can fell it in the marrow of my twisted skeleton that something has changed on a deep level with the world, but I do not know exactly what. Only time and observation will provide the answer.
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