Quiet and Waiting

Damp, gray November, "a time of quiet and waiting." Tired old world. I walk carefully. "Do no harm," I say to myself. Keep a lookout. In the misty rain, I see herons, cranes, storks, and ducks picking around a swampy creek, a neighborhood wetland. A sudden splash. The water comes to life. I want to walk in eternal time, I think to myself, through the recurring seasons, to smell this slick grass in the gray light without the din of events. Elections. Holidays. I am tired. It is "a time of quiet and waiting."

(quote from John Steinbeck's "Chrysanthemums.")