Journal Entry Day 4-690 Saint Paul

I awaken excruciatingly early. In the first shades of pitch and early dawn, I listen. What is it? I lie cautiously; immobile and attending with all my might. The neighborhood sleeps silently under a full moon while October holds her cards tightly to her person. Unblinking.

There it is again; a lush and gentle whooshing sound; the bending and opening of long dormant vents and suddenly the furnace turns on. I stretch and address the presence in the room, “Hello, my old friend, my sound and fury”. She is returned and rested; content with creaking and cracking as chilled summer nails warm up in corners and along eaves. The bedroom carpet puffs and the edging of curtains billow gently.

In minutes, the house feels more intimate and she settles and rests in the company of an old ally. There are old conversations to start over and colder days ahead. The memory of mulled cider, pots of chili with hot buttered biscuits and the sound of grinding coffee beans lies deep in the walls. There is much to be discussed.

As I drive off into pure black and cold air, I look in my rear view mirror at the house; at the roof covered with frost. It is blanketed with the finest layer of honey and coriander seed; lacy manna from Heaven and the foolish birds will attempt to feast when the sun rises. The shingles underneath will disappoint sorely. There will be loud cries overhead as the roof bids farewell to those who would nest and feast.

It is a fine 37 degrees and in the end it will turn out to be a sunny day. But for now, at this hour, steam rises off the flat and swampy waters at the edge of the woods. The fields are caramelized and crispy. The trees explode with leaves, heavy with colors and lingering mere hours away from dropping everything to stretch out into naked and branchy cinnamon air. There is no one around as I cross Frost road and I nod to the quiet deer watching at the edge of the shorn field.