Mulling things on my morning ramble
with Storm, the family's mixed Lab.
Johnny Cash lived a life that needed redemption.
Maybe that he why he so soulfully sings ``Sunday Morning Coming Down.''
Not sure why I thought of Kris Kristofferson's most mournful of songs this morning.
Maybe just the melancholy of fall settling in.
Nice enough morning for late fall: 30s, nearly flat calm and just enough clouds to make a red-ball sunrise.
Yet, there some of the lines from one of the saddest refrains came to mind as the meathead and I set out this morning
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
As we left town, a red-tailed hawk flew over the fence row to the far north, hunting on a Sunday morning.
It was a stark image in the half-light of pre-dawn, the bird seeming dark, almost an ink drawing image..
Fitting--``half as lonesome''--for my mullings.
A belted kingfisher flew off as we came back to the north old clay pit from the far fringe of the extended ramble.
Ripples came up as Storm and I crossed the bridge over the neckdown between the two old clay pits.
I knew that meant geese. And I found them, all 17 of the Canada geese, tucked tight to shore on the south clay pit.
They must know us, because they didn't fly off, only silently drifted out toward the middle, eying us all the while.
Geese don't feel alone, even on a Sunday morning.
Back home, of course, I pulled up a YouTube version of of Johnny Cash grinding out ``Sunday Morning Coming Down.''
And felt melancholy all over again.