How the days go

I've taken too much on.

In the morning the fog rises just enough to hover over the fields. And the sun sets the red hickory's golden leaves aflame, but no one seems to notice. Passing through stone-faced and looking at nothing in particular.  I've stopped pointing it out.  Two days later, already the top of the tree has turned to brown, and the all the leaves had darkened, soon they will fall to the ground.  People aren't ready for beauty.  I remember once, on a sight-seeing boat trip to a tulip festival, two eagles circled a giant eagle statue as we passed through the channel.  I pointed it out, but no one seemed interested, until it was announced over the intercom system. Once officially sanctioned, they flocked over to see it.  Have we become so programmed in our daily lives (because we have to, and should do, so many things) that we don't see, or hear, or taste, or sense anything without prior vetting?

Someone unexpectedly asked if I had seen the meteor shower, I had forgotten about it  He asked someone else, who also had not.  Maybe he was just trying to connect, but he reminded me of me.

So before I went to bed, I opened the blinds and cracked the window, in order to look for shooting stars.