It’s quiet enough for me to hear the ticking of the clock. A cockerel crows, away in the distance, in such a mournful manner that I’d thought it was a beaten dog or a broken person howling. It’s a rooster and doesn’t know the time of day. Quite funny, in a way, as I’m up at dawn and never hear him then – probably tired from crowing all day long. Note to self – avoid that trap.
Roosters crowing, clocks ticking and assassinations carried out by the thought police surrounding and manipulating Donald Trump. Sleek, well fed faces who’ve given up any pretence to any rule of law. What next? Assasinate U.S. generals who, undoubably, pose a real threat to everyone? Proof? Not needed – they were ‘definitely thinking about it’ – whatever ‘it’ happens to be.
Enough ranting. There’s an apprentice in the White House only marginally better than the Clintons. What an odious background they all carry.
And, of course, it suits some agenda to continue with chaotic policies, destroying whole societies in their wake.
Sigh and no .. not an overarching conspiracy to create a new world order, a one world government but a system designed to do just that – rely on greed and self interest to achieve that aim.
It’s only in recent times that banks have been able to print money out of thin air. Are you better off because of that act of trickery – I’m not. Negative interest rates? Sounds like fun but unheard of in a real world. Wall Street and Main Street – what symbolic names for two separate realities. One is a parasite upon the other.
A magpie sings a throaty melodic tune as it wanders the garden beds. Still and quiet is the rest of the neighbourhood. It’s so dry that the mosquitoes have disappeared although a neighbour living next to a hanging swamp reports differently. We observe less bird life and scratch our heads about how to be prepared for bushfire but still leave some covering on what would otherwise be bare earth and a refuge for tiny creatures, small lizards. It’s a quandary for a gardener - between a rock and a hard place. Meanwhile, for this season, there is no fruit on the trees in this garden, few berries on the canes.
Within a micro climate of this garden sits a small water feature, a picture below, in which birds bathe and drink. A small pump boosts a trickle of water up through the center and into a cannibalised hose fitting which throws out two tiny sprays. It’s enough to attract the birds who perch in the Treefern fronds overhanging the small pool at the base of the statue.
They love it, I love it, it was a gift.
Fires burn but right at this moment all is calm.