The seasons are in that strange colliding space now…with the first tentative sounds of crickets, new born and desperate…trying out the colder air, chirping weakly at the windows.
The windows…oh, the dearest hope filled celebration. The windows are…open. At long last, the air moves freely once again in the house. The last autumnal vestiges of cinnamon are swirling around and 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 on the porch. A tremendously good sign.
Suddenly, the low mournful sound of a single goose wafts through the screen door. He is lost. The northerly winged crowds flew by without him…days earlier. I hear him and then he’s gone; headed toward the lake possibly.
It’s already dark. I don’t know.
I do know I have new seeds and cans of almond spray paint for a door wreath…and I have crickets and mud and open windows…
690 Saint Paul 