Cool like stream water it seeps slowly in through the windows, through the floorboards. Fall, fall, fall. The sunlight falls golden, the first leaves fall still green, the temperature falls in the deep of night. We fall exhausted after a weekend of picking apples and pears that fall heavy from laden trees.

Birds scream the sky, crows molt for their lustrous fall plumage, black tatters scattered. I wake to one crying like a baby in the trees, high above the roof. The big orange cat who lives with us lies in the center of the lawn and rowlmeows talkatively to the black shadows. Once two summers ago he caught a crow and presented the bloody black wings to us. We bury such things beneath rocks. Wings should never be thrown in the trash.



I am so incredibly busy this week, already. The morning's mail was overwhelming, plus I'm covering two other jobs aside from my own work. It doesn't go away when I close my eyes. Any writing will be sporadic at best. Apologies.