We have reached the season of spiders, when I keep a broom handy so I can sweep the spider webs away every time I open the front door, but then I arrive home after a long weekend away and find webs blocking my path and no access to the broom on the other side. Soon the larger spiders will creep in through cracks and crevices (abundant in an old house) while others hitch a ride on the potted plants when they're brought indoors for the winter, and we'll have reached the season of stomping on creepy-crawlies a dozen times a day.
And we've reached the season of fog in the morning, fog so thick along the river that turning onto the highway is an act of faith, fog that creeps into my bones with a chill that bears no warning of the sunshine waiting to blast me in the face later when I step out of my office building for lunch. On campus this morning the fog was so thick that it swallowed up the sunflower blossoms looming overhead, blossoms that will continue to attract birds well into the season when everything green turns brown and deathly.
And we've reached the season of fogs of words that blur further into meaninglessness the more I read, the sentences stocked with almost-right words and phrases that make me scratch my head and wonder how anyone could live 18 years and not realize that horizon and verizon are not synonyms. Right now the words trickle in slowly, but in a week or two the flood will come and the fog will thicken and the spiders will invade and when I look out the window seeking relief, I'll see only the lost verizon.
Horizon.
Whatever.
No comments:
Post a Comment