A Thousand Hills

A murder . . . or . . . 
embracing a happier state of mind 


A few weeks ago, I saw a murder  . . . of crows. It's the  term for a gathering of the raucous black birds, and according to James Lipton, author of An Exaltation of Larks, the expression dates back to 1450 as "mursher of crowys." By 1476, it had evolved into "murther of crowes." Whether or not the phrase was inspired by the folkloric belief that crows were harbingers of death, or if it's a poetic creation, or if it's simply a translating mistake, it's an etymological mystery.

But, one thing is for certain.                                 
Gathering crows herald the coming of a new season.


Today's warm breezes are the last sweet breaths of summer.


Soon frost will lace the petunias and fringe the edges of the water dugouts. The air will be tinged with woodsmoke and the sad, sweet scent of moldering leaves, reminding me of my childhood, of first days of school and the fragrance of new crayons and Macintosh apples, of still-crisp white blouses and sharp, unchewed pencils. The softness of misty morning fog.

                                            
I'm in a season of being a grandma to two wonderful and beautiful girls, of painting, writing, and keeping The Cowboy happy, whether it's baking an apple pie or going with him to take salt to the cattle, but most of all, of bending, like a willow, to the demands each season brings, from the urgency of calving time to the dark days of winter.


It's all part of the cycle of life. Seasons of rainfall that bring refreshment . . . or flooding. Seasons of sunshine that produce a harvest . . . or drought. Spells of sadness or joy, lively years with children or the quietness of the empty nest.

“To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring.”  George Santayana

I'm sure we'd all love a perpetual spring or summer, to never have to face the driving snows and bitter cold of winter. And likewise, there are times we'd love to return to our past, to sunnier, happier days. But to wish back the past would be like hot cocoa on a summer day or a robin in the snow. Everything has its rightful time.

A new season replaces the old, and maybe it won't be better than the last one, but it will be different, with a fresh opportunity to see the hand of God, to be part of the plan He spun into motion at the touch of His finger, just as He's touching the leaves today, gilding them with gold and scarlet.                                      


I hope you'll join me as the seasons come and go here at the ranch. The coffee's always on. 


Goodbye, crows. I know you'll be back.