The Days are Shorter

Horus crowed this morning at his usual time...6 am. Horus is our rooster that was supposed to be a hen. We named him Isis to start with, but when the crowing started, it seemed a name change was in order. As it was still dark at 6, I waited an hour before going out in the morning mist to open the door of the chicken tractor.

A little cracked corn and laying mash for the chickens, then I toured the garden, pondering the relative shortness of the days, and how this phase of gardening is decidedly different, but also good.



Quiet. It is very quiet these mornings; not so much birdsong now. And the growing has surely slowed. (sometimes it almost seems like I hear the whisper of growing) Not so much to do, either. Yes, I'll take some partially rotted compost and spread it on the vacant beds later, but it is more a time to be than a time to do. It's a season I can be content with.


These lyrics by The Byrds referencing Song of Songs came to mind, especially the ones I have made bold.



Turn! Turn! Turn!
To everything, turn, turn, turn.
There is a season, turn, turn, turn.
And a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to be born, a time to die.
A time to plant, a time to reap.
A time to kill, a time to heal.
A time to laugh, a time to weep.

To everything, turn, turn, turn.
There is a season, turn, turn, turn.
And a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to build up, a time to break down.
A time to dance, a time to mourn.
A time to cast away stones.
A time to gather stones together.

To everything, turn, turn, turn.
There is a season, turn, turn, turn.
And a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time of love, a time of hate.
A time of war, a time of peace.
A time you may embrace.
A time to refrain from embracing.

To everything, turn, turn, turn.
There is a season, turn, turn, turn.
And a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to gain, a time to lose.
A time to rend, a time to sow.
A time for love, a time for hate.
A time for peace, I swear it's not too late.