On the horizon

I can hear the return of fall in the distance.

Cicadas are now serenading those who linger longer on their front porches at night.

I’m pretty sure I see it, too.

Right there on the faces of freckle faced children buzzing through brightly colored aisles of the drug store with their school supply lists.

I’m tasting it now in my first batch of homemade salsa after picking a bushel of ripe red tomatoes and green peppers from the garden.

And in the white and yellow corn kernels bathed in warm Land of Lakes butter, tasting sweeter than ever.

Did I feel a touch of fall this morning too, in that cool, crisp breeze brushing my shoulders while I walked the canine crew?

You betcha.

The pups and I refused to go back inside for breakfast.

The curator

The blade is dull.

Once a shining wedding present, the 23 year old carving knife now acts as a bookmark in his office.

It sits in the middle of a coffee stained pottery book resting on an artist’s easel.

This still life is to the left of a collection of quarters, dimes and nickels meticulously rearranged into three fresh piles every morning.

I notice the jingle from the soup spoons he carries daily in his pockets has been replaced by the sweeter sound of tiny baby spoons belonging to my granddaughter.

It seems a curator’s job is never quite done.

Even when the mind appears to be.