And here it is, Monday morning again.

Sitting on the stoop before dawn, I can smell autumn in the air--a vague and dissipating fragrance, but a presence nonetheless.

The earth is so dry here. We need five days of slow rain. Cicadas are scratching, scratching, and grasshoppers rattle in the weeds. The slant of sunrise is low against the horizon.

My garden is a riot of phlox and dahlias, hydrangeas and coneflowers, black-eyed susans and bee balm. The sunflowers are covered with enormous buds. The bean plants are laden. Raspberries glow like wine.

And now the old dog is shuffling into the kitchen, and the coffee pot is empty, and the singing thrush has fallen silent.

I open my copy of Rilke's "Fourth Elegy" and read, "Who has not sat, afraid, before his heart's curtain?"