Burn out

The last four days have been grueling.  As the summer drew to its close the bike shop reviewed its achievements.  It wasn't good. The bike industry isn't doing particularly well right now, not even with the boom in commuters; selling bikes doesn't net a very high profit.  So I was jobless for a few blissful weeks. Coming off of that excitement I was, fortunately, able to quickly find another job in an electronics store.  Unfortunately, this store began a major in-store redesign the day after I started. I was asked if I might consider working the overnight shifts for a few weeks.  I agreed, thinking that I would still have plenty of time to write and ride.  I was wrong, the shifts lasted twelve to thirteen hours a piece; the mental and physical strain of staying awake and trying to learn new tasks at a traditional time for sleep proved too much for me.  I had several mini breakdowns before telling the overseer that I could no longer function on the overnight shifts.  He asked why, I began to respond poetically about the constant grinding of confused thoughts, not knowing what day or time it was, being confused several times about where I actually was in several places, including the house and driving.  He just pointed out the door and said, "K, see you Sunday morning." The air is turning cold, water condensing in a frosty sheet on the windscreen of my car. I left the parking lot with the sun burning harshly in a perfectly clear sky.  The ride home was spent fighting sleep by trying to spell longer and longer words; but as I approached the house I started to get wired.  A result of the sun being up and being a diurnal person.  I passed the house and went to Stratton.  Cold, dry air invaded my car and it felt good to have natural uncirculated air in my lungs.  I stepped onto the trail, puffs of breath escaping from my mouth, gravel crunching under my black work boots.  My head cleared the further I walked; I felt myself returning from a state of crushing disappointment and despair.  The leaves are in full colour; almond shaped oak leaves in bright, cheery golds and oranges, silver maple a burning red, highlighted all the more by the lower growing, dead scrub oak leaves.  The creek has stopped flowing but there is still liquid water in stagnating pools, muddy banks in the middle of the trail that must be leapt over, and black and red berries hanging heavy on nearly every shrub.  Tiny red chokecherries, clusters of orange wortleberry, dull black june berry.  Soon the waxwings will return to gorge on them in gregarious groups hundreds strong. A raven passed overhead, yelling it's territorial call to the scrub jays and towhees hidden in the forests undergrowth.  A mixed flock of dark-eyed juncos and white-crowned sparrows worked the ground in the clearing between the reservoir and the forest beside a grand old Rocky Mountain Juniper. The smell of Christmas became stronger and my mind turned to that fast approaching happy season for a few minutes in joyous anticipation of the time with friends and family.  A strange shape appeared over the top of the reservoir, a raptor profile, but they were all supposed to be gone.  Except for one, Northern Goshawk, a brilliant silver accipter, the largest in the group.  With broad, short wings and a long tail, perfect for chasing flighted prey though forests.  They are rare, even in areas where they nest and stay as year long residents.  I shielded my eyes from the too bright sun and watched.  It wasn't a Goshawk (pronounced GOS-hok, a shortened version of Goose Hawk, their old common name), the wings were broad and long, the tail short and fanned.  Red tailed hawk?  The tail was barred and the bird was very light coloured and big; bigger than a red-tailed.  The bird blessed me with a pass over my head, it was a ferruginous hawk.  A large bird of the open plains, a buteo hawk, killer of rabbits and rock squirrels.  A land attack fighter in a feathery disguise.  With a weary head and a happy heart I walked back to my car and returned to the house on Pegasus for a long dreamless nap.