Monthly Archives: October 2008

The first snow of the season blows sideways through the thinning woods. All the roofs are white, white—sudden colonies of the sky.

Rain. The only bright colors now are shades of orange; even the yellow chrysanthemums have turned brown, balled up like soggy caterpillars.

Canada geese. What leaf is small and black and falls more slowly than a feather? A fire dances up in the trash burner, the brightest thing.

The coldest morning so far this season. Faint noises in the darkness must be leaves letting go, brushing against branches on their way down.

First frost: a few small patches in the lowest parts of the yard. New holes in the wall of woods go from light to dark as clouds move in.

When the wind blows from the west, I can hear people talking at the new house site. When it blows from the east, the trees creak and groan.

33°F at dawn. The quarry is loud in the east, and it’s hard to shake the impression that I’m listening to the dull machinery of the sun.

First light, and a great-horned owl is calling down in the hollow, the first three notes of each call drowned out by this rabble of a rain.

A song sparrow sings, and suddenly it’s spring again. In the front garden, under browning leaves, the witch hazel dangles spidery blooms.

Overcast and gusty, a day for flying leaves: those that twirl, those that circle, those that flutter, those that tumble, those that sail.