Dear Readers,
The long weekend in Michigan was perfect. That stage of autumn when the few remaining leaves fall slowly, leisurely, as if each were waiting its turn. One . . . then another . . . then another . . . floating, twisting. It was mesmerizing.
How about a 17th century poem?
On a withered branch
A crow is perched,
In the autumn evening.
(Basho)
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to History on Drugs to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.