It's Labor Day weekend, which brings with it the unofficial end of summer (which technically ends on September 21, or three weeks later than it really does), and as we all wind things up with one last barbeque blast (or whatever -- remember that Journals Editor Jeff wants to know how you're spending the weekend), I thought it might be fun to get poetical about the fading of hot summer days and nights:
Gee whiz, how could it be Sunday already? Where's the week flown?
I've not been feeling up to snuff and the Mrs. has been under the weather with a bad sinus infection. Woes at work have her down, too. Focus has, perforce, been inward. Sorry about that -- I'll try harder next week, for sure.
One of the things I've been noticing for the past few weeks is the relative silence. No bird calls, save the plaintive wails of the resident family of loons by my brother's place on the lake. Beaver activity has stepped up with no one home -- the fat bastards have been cutting trees left and right. And the Canada Geese have flown south in great chevron flights, honking their alarm at the onset of winter in the North Country. It's an ill omen, with Kerosene up to $3.49 and the heating season not yet started.
So there you have my inspirations for what follows ... an end of summer haiku:
Goodbye, little bird;
South you have gone. Heat gone too.
Chore left; scrape bird doo.
Extra credit: imagine a photo of a fat old man squeezed into a long red and yellow kayak here.
There, that wasn't so hard, was it?