It is 5:00 o’clock; early beginnings in September. Dawn inches out slowly across the land at the edge of the bending river and the moist soil. These rich fields are filled to bursting with corn and beans and wheat. It has been a long time since I wakened at this hour. This time belongs to the farmer and the road crew and the wind which buffets the heavy equipment, the seed spreader and the faces of those hearty souls who have spent their entire lives breathing in this moment. These are the people who prepare plates thick with home fries, bacon and eggs and hotcakes, waiting to be served up greasy and hot. These are the people who build the land so that others may drive through it.
I cannot eat at this hour. It is enough to be awake and to sip strong coffee grown in the deep green heart of Puerto Rico. I listen to the wind chimes clanging wildly on the porch. The breeze sounds different now. The air blows with its edges all curled up, almost as if it is tucking itself in against the coming frosts. There will be a full moon soon.
Last night, at the stroke of midnight the sky stirred and the old moon sighed and rolled over. It’s a long leaf strewn slope down toward the first frost and the heavy splintered baskets of apples with the metal handles which gouge the flesh on your hands if you don’t carry them well. Then there is the pumpkin harvest and the purple ink black shadows lingering over the road on which I travel as I head into the city. I am awake at this early hour and I am privileged to revel in the early September beauty.
It’s the second week of this new school year. The road opens up before me as the fields merge slowly into traffic and the buildings rise up and the mourning dove sleeps far behind me in the woods I leave behind. For now, the time of reading in fields of gold and lavender are gone. The bend in the road along the edge of the mighty river pulls me away from that endless August breeze, past the greening banks of the Genesee on this September morning.
690 Saint Paul 