Life is a fine thread, a delicate balancing act.
Imminent arrivals and departures have a sobering effect, clarifying the suspicion that life, which is given one day at a time, can be snatched away with no warning or with too much warning.
For mine, I refuse to spend much time in death’s waiting room, ‘because I cannot wait for death’. I want to be ploughing furrows in paddocks for the next quarter of a century, both mental and physical furrows. And not just in paddocks with which I am familiar. I want the furrows to be very deep, to be in fertile soil and to be scattered across the lands. I want to be one of a number of non-descript birds scratching away in the mounds of turned earth, pecking up worms and seeds.
And when my last feather flutters to earth, may it be fine, and beautiful, and strong.