Winter may be here… or knocking on the door anyway. Walked today with gloves and hat needed and a windchill below freezing. Autumn goes by the fastest of all the seasons.
Baseball is my favourite sport but even I’d say it’s becoming pretty unwatchable. 3.5 to 4 hour games with not enough fielding… too many strike outs… too many pitching changes and too many batters stepping out and calling time. My two greatest baseball wishes… a limit on the number of pitchers on a roster… and restrictions on the shift. I’d love to see no more than eleven pitchers on a 25 man roster. Do away with the one batter specialist. Make it so relievers need to be able to go multiple innings and, with a reduced pitcher roster, a team can’t afford to use three pitchers in order to get three outs in a late inning. And I wouldn’t outlaw the shift entirely, but I think the shortstop and 3rd baseman need to both stay on the left field side of 2nd base while the 2nd baseman and 1st baseman stay on the right field side.
Anyway, I still pay attention to the World Series but I’m generally not starting to watch until the 3rd inning or so… and that still gives me a good 2.5 hours of game to watch.
Memory foam mattresses promote hibernation. Last night I was in bed for eleven hours (slept about nine of that). It’s just too comfortable! There’s no desire to get out of bed!
I found the Beachcombers coming on my TV each week. Started PVRing it and now that show is part of my pre nap routine. Watch an episode… then off to bed for my afternoon nap before night shift. It’s a kind of corny show to look back on but is a nice memory of simpler times. I’d much rather go to bed thinking about Nick and Relic boating around for logs than thinking about the stupidity coming out of Donald Trump’s mouth.
They’re Leaving
They’re leaving.
Once plowed fields
Black speckled
With hoards
Southbound travellers
Passing through
Pausing here
Preparing for the journey
As bordering trees
Bronze the horizon
But as bronze fades to bare
Wooden skeletal fingers
Reaching for that vanishing sun
They leave.
The leaving is gradual.
One flock departs
Replaced by a new wave
One family stopping
For leftovers of airborne cousins
But it nears its end.
A departure now leaves empty fields
We’ve reached that point
With small V’s of stragglers
Honking through the cold evening sky
Too late to land
They flap towards the southern glow.
Afraid to be overtaken
By the black northern cold
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