Monday Blues: Sucking Powdered Earth

This little bit of year, a sliver of purgatory at the end of summer, before Autumn takes over, when the hillsides are dead and withered. The pleasing buckskin tones of mid-summer have long since disappeared. Green is even further in the past. Brown is the color now, but not the rich, deep shade that it can be. No, this brown has had all the life drawn from it; it is drained, a lifeless grey only able to hint at a previous vitality. Bleached and battered, the remnants of Spring's green protrude from the dust, broken mid-stalk, insides hollowed, empty husks like straws with nothing to suck through decomposing roots but powdered earth. Serrated edges slash at my ankles if I stray from a narrow line and weave too close; the odd barbed head, a dangling hook to grab at socks. I hope the green will hold the line, down along the lake shore, up along canyon bottoms, stay their retreat, wait, anticipate the first appearance of monsoonal moisture, then strike back, counter, and a few months later reclaim the slopes and high ground.

the difference between Saturday and Sunday - a couple degrees temperature, a few more clouds in the sky, many more people along the lakeshore


Blue: A color, a mood or emotion, a genre of music. Tune in each Monday for another installment of the Blues, with a cycling twist.

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