Musings on The Day After

I propose this October 22nd,  the first day after the non-apocalypse-- should be a fair day for musing, a model for all October days. The air is  dry, still and peaceful, the sun is bright, warm, and the air is unusually fresh--perhaps even deceivingly so.
There is not a sound in this neck of the woods other than those we make ourselves. Living half a mile from a highway in the middle of a natural forest brilliantly dressed in autumn colours  can do that, encourage us to appreciate another of the blessings we have.

We sat on the deck just outside the door for a while, gazing into the western sun and watching the pups playing tug-of-war with a colourful but tattered piece of woven rope  It was a dog toy with a wannabe tennis-ball distraction on it originally, but is now simply a remnant,  a survivor, a sun-faded piece of  chewed-up rope with a big knot on each end.

They growl, pull like fury, then fiercely hold stance, holding the rope under tension, motionless, eye-to-eye,  looking serious and dedicated,  almost  as one,  royalty posing for the internal-picture album of the future .  There's the short, black, powerful pup, and the taller, tan, gangly one--different sizes and colours, but equally matched, like two peas in a pod. They were both rescue dogs, survivors of less than perfect conditions when we got them, but  happy as pumpkins today with the tug-of-war and cooler weather .


Maybe after yesterday with the predictions of doom, we are all survivors of less than perfect conditions and just don't know it yet. Maybe we're more like the straggly rope than we realize, being a mere part of a closely woven, tangled rope dangling in the universe, being pulled this way and that.
 
Anyone get a call to say otherwise?

October poplar leaves are almost as bright today as this sunflower was.....

Bright yellow leaves--almost as bright as sun-bathed sunflower petals in August-- have fallen from the Poplar trees, and are turning brown slowly as if they have been carefully assigned to join the soil itself by camouflage.
They lay patiently, in the still-bright-green grass,  almost as if each has been issued  a specific moment to disappear into oblivion.  Do they have little notes from God scribbled on them too,  each perhaps delivering a special and unique  message to the earth? Are they like human beings, each taking it's turn to return to God, one at a time --if not en masse?

No matter; at Incoming Bytes I prefer to believe our time on this earth, --however long --is a blessing with purpose--and have therefore enjoyed my alotted  October day immensely, survivor or not. 
How about you?



That's my story and I'm sticking to it.