The season of mellow fruitfulness has come and gone. I spent yesterday's gloaming huddled under a blanket watching the bare-legged JV soccer boys wildly do jumping jacks between plays in a vain effort to stay warm. Too close to my hat for comfort, a trio of beady-eyed inland seagulls swooped down on the popcorn kernels littering the grass; and my big black poodle, who for unfortunate grooming-schedule reasons was forced to attend this game, developed a strong dislike for big white birds. High winds have torn all the leaves from the trees, frost has burnt the remnants of summer, and I am wondering where my winter boots have gotten to. On today's schedule: pull out the last of my beets and carrots, investigate the brussels sprouts, split some firewood, and remember to bring two blankets to the next soccer game.

I wish I could write, but that hasn't been happening lately. Now that the anthology proofs are in the hands of the postmistress, I am trying to dredge up a shred of optimism about my ability to create something new. (Can one "dredge up a shred"? I think not, but I'm going to try anyway.) In the meantime, I could make an apple pie and vacuum the wood chips out of the living room rug. Art is short; housework is long--which on the whole is probably how it should be. Otherwise, what would I have to write about?