Gloomy skies brighten. An enormous, seemingly dead cranefly dangling from a spiderweb flutters to life. I pull it free and it sails off.
Hard rain. My brain feels sluggish, despite coffee. A flash of lightning like the apotheosis of all this yellow.
With each breeze, a shower of yellow leaves. Now and then a whole walnut leaf—spine and rib bones sinking together in this sea of air.
A walnut falls from a maple tree. Squirrel as surrealist. The mid-morning fog beginning to glow.
Thin fog at sunrise. Four deer in the yard ignore me only to stamp and snort at a small black cat.
Two squirrels trace a fast single helix down the trunk of the big maple. The typewriter rattle of their claws.
A warmer morning; the blue sky harbors an ever-so-slight suggestion of haze. The sound of rodent teeth chiseling open a black walnut.
Equinox. I spot some goldenrod, done flowering, turning yellow a second time. My mother stops by to tell me about a singing porcupine.
Cool and clear. The witch hazel in front of the living room window, which I haven’t gotten around to pruning out, is already turning gold.
The dial thermometer’s red arrow has just missed 0°C. A black tiger moth caterpillar is curled by the stoop like a dropped comma.