Time

Early morning in November and the sky is deep blue with a sliver of moon. I step out of the house and close the door firmly, turning the key in the lock.


Morning is silent and cold. The wrens, cardinals and mockingbirds wait for sunrise to call them from their hidden nighttime places. I walk into the garden where a few crickets chirp in deep voices, but one is a soprano, rare so late in the season.

Does he know that autumn comes late this year? Does he fear the first frost?


Fear and dread are for other creatures,

those who created the calendar,

and named the seasons and the months,

parceling time into days,

each day with precisely 24 hours,

each hour with 60 minutes,

each minute with 60 seconds.

For the cricket, there is no time. Life is a river with no beginning or end.


Sunrise to sunset, morning to night. He flows with the rhythm of nature, the sun and the moon.


Needless of haste and free of ambition, of productivity, of progress, he thinks nothing of personal achievement. He needs no precision.

 
 
With no clock to chime the hours


There is only now.



.