Harvest Moon

Tonight, I've been watching the harvest moon set the trees to glimmering and drape the ground and walls in filigree shadows. Rare veils of cloud have drifted by and softened the brightness, but most of the hours have been measured by sharp lines between light and dark, every object a moondial. The cool air is perfectly still, and the slow glide of shadows thus undisturbed. All night, I have heard no sound of wing or footfall; no deer, no raccoons, no owls. Even the crickets have fallen silent. It is as though the forest, feeling the sharpness of the air, has held its breath in surprise. Now, the shadows have grown long, and the bright west will soon be outshone by the east. Night can bide its time. Soon, it will outstay the day. Like some long-sought oasis, Autumn, with its shade and cool waters lies just over the horizon. None too soon, I say.

Dry Afternoon

My cat got a dried leaf stuck to the tip of her tail by the leaf stem, and dragged it behind her as she walked. It made a nice autumnal sound, scraping along the pavement, but I removed it anyway. She'd have chewed it off.

The blue is brushed with streaks of cirrus cloud today, and the Indian Summer warmth is dry and gently breeze-blown. I think of washing hanging on a line. The leaves on a few twigs of the mulberry tree have turned yellow, creating a few bright patches in the still mostly green canopy. Sufficient leaves have fallen and quickly dried to make a satisfying crunch underfoot as I pass along the walkway.

Such days have brought me contentment in the past, but today I project onto it my mood of melancholy. I see the winding down, the decay of all things, and feel a sense of loss and sadness. After napping in the yard for a while, my cat comes indoors for a bit of attention, and curls up in my lap. Her fur is darker than it was when she arrived here almost fifteen years ago. She purrs very softly, and presses one forepaw against my knee rhythmically for a while, then falls into a slow-breathing sleep. She looks very, very old.