October 2008

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.

Through the darkness and fog, loud thuds from the black walnut trees that encircle the houses, a slow carpet bombing that goes on for weeks.

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.