by Mike Mueller

Created on: May 03, 2009

The onset of winter is always like the frantic shot of the starters gun at the starting line of a terrible race. The abrupt shortness of days and the chill that bites the extremities is no different than the sharp teeth of herdsman dog nipping at the hooves of the strayling. The season of the reaper is at hand, a fatal page is being turned, the day skies are gray like a zeppelin, the night skies are transparent and reveal the nakedness of the galaxy. This is a time to be alert, to be brisk, to be aware, and the mind will have none of it as it slips into the fog of oblivion and dereliction.

Winter is a crisis that inspires deep sleep. It is a freefall of hibernation where the senses are muffled and the will is stifled. Fate will decide.

And when the white death melts, and the thawing of the bodies cells begin, the foundation turns to muck. The snow becomes brown slush, cold freezing wet brown slush. The body awakens to an egg yoke yellow sun which gives no comfort but causes the protective winter layer to decompose to mud and puddles. The feet sink deeply into the mud and first become numb, then burn like rubber.

This is a time of stumbling and toddling. It is a time for sniffling and pottying. An infantile mess has descended on the land, these are the days of the bawling brat.

But now The sun has cast a sharper shadow. It has warmed the earth and the puddle is gone. The living things have sprung forth and the little boy talks of things, and counts things. The boy sings something simple one day, the next day the boy has added new notes and has spoken new words. The little creatures come out, each new day they seem to have a grown a bit, they too are learning new words. One senses that plans are being made across the land. With all the rapid changes, one should begin to count and even to think of the morrow.

The sun grows so high, it is crossing the zenith. Things have all grown. These are full days, there are extra hours. Extra hours for bad deeds. Friends were made early, now the little ones have grown into beasts. A beast can kill another beast and other beasts can watch. Any beast can play at this. This is the time, this is the place, let all of the killing begin. The big can kill the small, the small can kill the big. The many can kill the few, the few can kill many. It is the killing time.

They kill so many beasts, the smoke is in the air, there is the usual crying of the weak, and the sun surrenders. The leaves die and seeds are scattered. The birds start to fly away from here, they have seen enough of the battle and so has the sun. The wind is blowing from another direction now, it seems judgement is in the air. The beasts are on the retreat, their young following close behind, some are orphans, but all are on the run.

The small and the weak cuddle up to the big and the strong. They gather in the open, facing the inevitable gathering doom. There will be safety in numbers they presume. The beasts see there is no shelter for what is to become. The beasts gaze across the open land, now aware that this boy has become an old man and will reap the harvest, for this old man has reached the finish line.

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