The seasons are in that strange colliding space now…with the first tentative sounds of crickets late last night after the rain, new born and desperate…trying out the colder air, chirping weakly at the windows. The windows…oh, the dearest hope…the windows are open! At long last, the air moves freely in and around the house. The last autumnal vestiges of cinnamon are swirling out, replaced with rose, sage, iced strawberry.
The sun shone longer today and I went shopping and bought flower seeds and came home to find my husband seated comfortably on the porch; a tremendously good sign.
Suddenly, the low mournful sound of a single goose wafts through the screen. He flies somewhere over the roof of the house and he is lost. The northerly winged crowds flew by without him days earlier and I heard their wild cawing and squawking. I listen to him now and then he is gone; headed toward the lake possibly. It’s already dark now. He’s very late. I don’t know.
I do know I have seeds and two cans of almond colored spray to repair and upgrade a battered door wreath…and I have crickets and mud and open windows…
690 Saint Paul 