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 neighborhood cat wanders over and plops down on one of the porch chairs, stretching and settling in to watch the street with yellow, sleepy eyes.
The windows…dearest hope for balmier temperatures…the windows are…open. At long last, the air moves freely in the house. The last autumnal vestiges of cinnamon and pumpkin nutmeg are swirling out, replaced with rose, sage, iced strawberry and vanilla lavender.
The sun shone longer today and I went shopping and bought flower seeds and came home to find my husband sitting quietly on the porch, the neighbor’s cat long gone. This is a tremendously good sign, this man sitting on the green Adirondack chair.
Suddenly, the low mournful sound of a single goose wafts through the screen. He is lost. The northerly winged crowds flew by without him…a number of days earlier and he is on his own. I listen, hearing him emit another mournful honk…and he is gone. Maybe he’s headed toward the lake. It’s fast approaching twilight and I do not know where he has vanished.
I do know that 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 