"He made the moon to mark the seasons; the sun knows its time for setting." Psalm 104:19
Its cold. But not the bitter cold of the hallmark holidays are upon us cold. But the kind of cold that reminds you that they're near. And the cold that says time waits for no one.
But that's a new notion. Not one you are acutely aware of when caught up in back to school shopping trips and bags of stale candy corn. That frightful realization that time paces itself under a different set of rules and doesn't keep track of closet turnovers and the warm return of pumpkin spice lattes. The cold I feel now takes me back to a place of ache, that chilling and obvious feeling of anticipation. To be prepared for something.
But what?
Giving God the Glory and the thanks to dramatic television, I view New York City with an intimate and unconventional lens.
Do you ever feel like time is running out?*
This morning I lie on my back in the most secluded corner of sensational Central Park hidden from the eyes of 110th street and amongst the radiant warm colors of another year drawing nearer to end. Props has brought in a few fake trees they position around me. Their green waxy surface will be out of place in one week's time. The last time I was in the park, the forsythia lit up the walk.
The yellow crime scene tape flaps against the oaks. And electric scrambles up ladders strategically positioned out of the shot. The producer pulls on his collar as the timecards and budget rack up.
We're chasing the sun again. It passes over the island so much earlier these days. We never catch it.
A stiff breeze sends the clouds across the October sky and rustles the weeping Willow's limbs. And I wonder what else the wind will rush in.
Qaddafi's did.
Wow. Really beautiful words.
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