i wanted to write a long and a sad post about my bank: how i had it for 24 years, and how some years ago the control packet of the shares was bought by another bank, which was secretly owned by some bigwig in russia, and how Byzantine machinations ruined that bank first, and then my bank… and how i dislike changing banks, and how my country again proved to be just a banana republic minus the bananas (unfortunately)… but then i thought of it, and decided i will not. it will bring nobody any good, least of all myself.
no, i will write of trees. and the smell of autumn, and the rust-coloured grasses bending close to the ground in the merciless wind.
the trees are bare. they fling their branchy arms, and twiggy fingers into the gusts of wind, dancing through the air, indicating the closeness of darkness that is to come.
the blackberries have been eaten by the blackbirds and starlings passing through. now the place is full of simple, leafless brambles till the spring when the patch will be covered with little white sweet-smelling flowers.
the grass has turned golden, and then pale yellow, and then rusty in patches. and the smell of raw earth, prepared for the frost and snow, and winter, floats on the wind. the sky is pale grey, ever.
the tree branches stretch out forever in the wind, across the mist, fading in and out of focus, brushing against the fundament of the invisible sky above. i look up, and the fascinating dance of the twigs captivates my eye.
for a moment, i am a tree, my boots rooted in the grey earth, and my imaginary branches stretch out into the grey heaven. and all the power of autumn flows through me.
this is how i learn to love this earth.
Peregrin sum 