The buffleheads are here now--we saw about a dozen in the Cape May Harbor, blooping into the water as they chased whatever it is that buffleheads chase.
The bright white clown heads of the males clashes with the oblique shadows of the late year. We're in the darkest 10 days of the year now. Even the marigolds have given up the ghost.
(The rosemary bush continues to flower, as do a few dandelions, their blue and yellow colors taunting the failing sun.)
I know the sun will return. I know the sun is almost as close this time of year as it will be. I know the Earth turns. I know all this, and believe none of it.
I saw the sun creep up over the horizon as the half moon hung overhead at dawn. I saw it struggle to climb--a flight that peaked just barely 27 degrees above horizon--and it's sulking back down towards the horizon.
I know the sun will return. I'll believe it when it happens.
There's a disconnect between what I know and what I believe, a disconnect we're too quick to dismiss in the classroom, to dismiss in our lives.
4 years ago