A pallor, a darkening flush

The orchard is the wilderness of red tail hawk and subterranean gopher, a broken motherland of rusted and broken farm machinery from another age left to be absorbed into the earth as the years pass. In the evening the crows settle on the treetops, huddled together for warmth as a cold moon lifts off from behind the north-eastern mountains. There's a dead time for my sadness to recline in the shade of the oak tree, half-filled whiskey glass and a dog-eared paperback by my side. When I was younger I was convinced my father was right; money drove happiness, like a horse-drawn chariot trying to outpace life's troubles and avoid the inevitable truth of aching bones and broken heart. In the rosy glow of the whiskey there was nothing to do except scuff the dry earth with the heel of my boot and enjoy the coming of evening.  It's a worthwhile endeavor, the sipping of whiskey and the turning of a page, stopping to brush a flake of dead skin off the knee of my jeans. In the settling of the evening the land has a pallor, a darkening flush of impending death as the hawks settle in for the night, nested in the linden tree next to the house. My whiskey drunk, I twist around to catch the white blur of the great horned owl as it swoops from telephone pole to fence post, ears alert, ready to undermine the idea of calm and quiet I'd let settle over me as I drained my glass.