September Morn

Day 324: September Morn is a personal day of celebration and I should be up in the mountains somewhere, paddling around the border of hypothermia in a chilly alpine tarn to "wash away the dross of humanity," as I put it. But circumstances dictate otherwise in the year of 2020, not that there's any lack of "dross." In fact, if ever I needed that ritual bath, 2020's "dross" is a burden from which I may never be fully cleansed despite the most vigorous scrubbing. Instead, I contented myself with pulling a few weeds from the flower beds and picking tomatoes, delighted that the Nuthatch joined me in the festivities by sounding his "honk" call for the first time in my yard. Across the road, the vine maple is blushing at its crown, always in a hurry to take September into its arms. While halcyon days line up in the forecast for the coming week, I think of Septembers past, spent in utter and absolute solitude in the high country, so blithe and so very different from the solitude demanded by 2020. If I could choose one day in time to repeat throughout eternity, it would be one spent beside the creek where, for twenty-five years running, I spent a week to ten days alone in Elysium, the only sounds the creek's gabbling, the cry of the hawk above my camp and the antiphony of coyote and elk in sunset refrain. Offer me that single day again, and I will give you my remaining years in trade, so does my soul ache for September in that place.