A troop of goats trot triple-time down a valley road, a machinery of bells threshing the mountain air. Little breaks the silence of the rural dukedom where we reside. What does, gains immediate notice.
It is the happening of the moment passing through to another place to pasture, the ******* Of the seasons. Though meadows burst with Kelly green, and no trees have dropped their leaves, it is autumnβs inaugural, where clouds hug the earth, mountains curry themselves, goats scurry to new homes.
We, too, have shifted homes for a respite from the mundane. The new now advertises surprise: This will not appear elsewhere, will not last long enough to forget where we came. With time, we follow the goatherdβs abrupt call and hope to be rewarded with a golden bell.