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  • Writer's picturePatrick Archambeau


The corn is tall and heavy in the fields. Fruits are gaining their blush under the powerful glare of the sun. The air is thick making each breath full with that creeping feeling that harvest time has come. Is it the third or fourth cutting of hay? Although the sparrows try for another clutch the robins are done for this year. Some will stay for the winter and some will go. The kingbirds have left and the grackles have forgotten that not long ago their whole lives were lived in my yard. A cottontail has moved in, in their stead, and we play a game of who gets the strawberries first.

I can feel it. It's to green. There are to many leaves. We're about to fall off the edge of Lughnasadh into the golden grasses and falling leaves of autumn. The days are hot and slow. The insects have hit their peak. I asked a hognose snake if fall was close but he just grumbled about the toads being bigger this year and harder to hunt. Speaking of toads, one has taken up sitting on top of the offering stone putting an exclamation point on the fact that this year we discovered that toads can climb quite well.

I have been concerning myself to reconnecting with the elements. Restating my reverence. First with Ura, water, and now with Lurrah, the earth. Soon I will move on to fire and wind. I am asking for healing for my wandering soul. A deeper connection to the good neighbors and my ancestors.

Alban Elfed is racing up to us. I'll leave you now to dreaming of the snow...and the wamth of a fire...a some hot tea.....

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