Swan Song

The seed catalogs are wrapped up and gone now. Thrown unceremoniously into the recycling bin at the dump. Damn near forgot them in the front of the truck I was so busy with the beer bottles. I took one long last look at the flowers on the cover of one of them before I pitched it, then fired the truck up and took off down the hill.
They all seem so rosy and cheerful when the season starts – before the season starts, one should say. They promise sustainable happiness and old-time bliss. My favorites are the ones without pictures – they feature highly stylised paintings of bean vines and sunflowers and ladybugs. It kinda makes you want to - garden.
Well, that was before. We’re shut down now, and a cold wind blows in from the North and all the leaves are about to fall off the trees. I got up reasonably early this morning and picked and packed and loaded and sold and came home. Market. Last one for the year.
The fields are at rest now, officially. They no longer beckon each morning with unfinished tasks and promised greenery. They sit idly under rye shoots and I say to them: Rest. I’m going to.