Summer is toying with me, Chickens. You?
I’m scratchin’ like a mad hen and turning up nothing but sand.
Spring fever precipitated summer repose, my cheeky Chics…what are we to do with this trance-like state of mellowy-yellow, underconsciousness?
Here at Northern, everyone is out-to-lunch on Fridays during the languid summer months. (Can I get a witness?) Let’s face it…summer is hard enough… nobody…NO-body can get even one eye to focus on Fridays in June an’ July.
What to do, what to do? I mean, the melting is slow enough…I can concentrate for ridonkulous periods of time on, let’s say…my toes…or the dandelion seeds floating outside my window…(along with my motivation to do anything remotely productive).
I mean, I’ve been writing this post for about 2 weeks now…PA-thetic.
Who’s to say, though, my fowl brethren and sistren??? Perhaps we should not grouse ’bout our sherbet-like upper stories. Newton was, after all, lolling about in his mother’s countryside garden (ya’know avoiding the plague and all)...nonetheless…loafing under the apple trees when the Law of Universal Gravitation knocked the powder out of his periwig. Let’s accept that it’s summertime and the livin’ is easy.
There is something instinctual about this staccato midsummer rhythm…it is good, should we feel guilt or frustration, to remember we weight the earth – not the other way ’round.
Let’s slip-n-slide through these languorous summer months with patience and perspective…For never anything can be amiss, When simpleness and duty tender it.
Dream all day…read all night…scratch out your to-do list with sidewalk chalk…our initiative, our industry, is seeding…knee-high by July, brown ears in October.