The ghosts are down by the creek where the bears hide and the sun shines intermittingly. They warn and drift over turning leaves and bubbling water. They lash with cedar boughs and spruce needles. It doesn’t help if you don’t believe in spirits. They keep it up just the same. And if you can’t feel them flying through your soul you’re in denial.
The leaves are turning. The colours are showing. The days are on the dwindle and the nights are picking up speed. Rain is in the creek bottom. It translated into snow in the mountains. Regardless of language it is understood.
A muddy creek cuts the banks. Changing it surely. There is no slowly in the bush. Everything happens in it’s own time. The trees and rock feel it. If anything it is quick.
It is cooling. Plenty of shotgun shells litter the back roads, fools shooting trees as if they can kill them. Of course, they don’t consider them alive before they pull the trigger anyway.
September is on deck with its brilliant days and morning frost. The fools blasting foliage and rock will be replaced with the fools hunting game and shooting signs. The only condolence is there are less of them.