September 2013

In the weak sunlight, only leaves at just the right angle glisten, dully, like the eyes of dead fish. A cicada calls twice and falls silent.

Cold and clear—the clearest air in months. The strong sunlight reveals that it is full of motes and insects, more silk than soup.

Two bucks wander past in patchy, shedding coats, spike antlers curved like the horns of anorexic bulls. One pauses to snack on lilac leaves.