Still no rain. It's a sad way to head into autumn, watching my late-summer crops crisp up and die. But other than the terrible dryness, the days have been lovely . . . afternoon sun stretching long fingers through the maples, the first crunch of leaves underfoot. This morning I'll go out to hunt for more hen-of-the-woods mushrooms under the oaks. Later I'll finish moving firewood, roast a chicken for dinner. I'll read and write and edit, and I'll pick tomatoes and kale, and I'll sit out on the stoop with the cat. A quiet ending to a quiet week.

I still have a sense of shiver, of stasis, of something-is-about-to-change, of nothing-has-changed-yet. The moment before a bead of water rolls off a leaf. The moment before a baby wakes from a nap.

Last night I wrote a poem. A Chopin prelude sang low, and the night became a character and time washed up against the sidewalks like the tide coming in.