peaking early this year

late august. looking for the sandhill cranes

looking for something . . .

I can't name

remembering

another time . . . much like this

pearly everlasting

Pitch black by 7:30pm, we stand on the front porch, barefoot, listening. Insects thrum louder than they have in days. A warm spell stirs them, three nights following our first hard freeze. They, like we, are in a great state of hurry. Firewood is the priority. And apples. What to do with all of them. Sheet lightening reveals a fig hue in the sky. The corrugated roof of the barn lifts with it. No thunder tonight.

The silhouette of a maple is still thick with leaves. Tomorrow, I will take my camera.

a pause before the symphony

hobblebush

from my favorite patch

They’ve eaten the coral berries of the mountain ash. Stripped clean in less than nine days, the tree stands browning and disheveled. The glory of orange and red is rising to the south in one large maple turning early. Even the robins were gone yesterday. No longer popping between tufts of grass, snatching the sounds of summer by way of grasshoppers; the field was mowed. As shelters shrink, leaves curl, vines wither slowly from their broadest range, life takes flight—to somewhere warm, or warmer than the coming days. This morning’s chill has me churning thoughts of fire to break the spell. Instead, I hold my mug, with open palms, more closely.

a quiet cove full of button-stones

walking through time

Jerusalem Artichoke (Helianthus tuberosus)

apples
hang, weighing on, the light is golden
within those leaves, monarchs lift, my boat
is loaded, holding time, I sit on his porch
life unfolding, just as it is
a raspberry still ripening
on its vine

needing to return