That is the order of things, from least difficult to most difficult to endure when adversity comes to your door, when Time Itself comes to collect the harvest.
Solemnity can mask the most dolorous mood. Dignity attends to itself, maintains. Truths are evident, blatant, suffer for the saying. Silence speaks without prompting. Caution takes the initiative.
Harvest time approaches here in Yerba Buena, a time of collection, a hopeful time of hoped-for bounty. It is also a dangerous time, the time of Fire, the time of Endings. The Time of the Reaper.
Her scythe cuts, signifying both ending and beginning, of giving up one for another, of surrendering to time, to the light. To renewal hoped for but not guaranteed. Who expects guarantees? No one who has lived through the Time of the Reaper.
Sowing is hard work, an act of faith and not merely a throw of the dice. It’s not a gamble so much as a rhythm and a rhythm is nothing more or less than a cycle repeated. What is sown is not always what is collected; effort is not always rewarded. In the Time of the Reaper, what is collected is also shared-among, however, and thus goes the world.
But this is not the time for whistling past any graveyards; death only follows the Reaper, and while La Vieja remains among us, endings are not yet ended.