Little Chuck was up early this morning, chasing a leaf around the bedroom. Yesterday he discovered a cache of leaves in the basement, autumn detritus tracked or blown in during wood stacking and lumber moving and such. Delighted, he's started carrying them upstairs in his mouth, one by one, as if he's caught a mouse, and then pouncing on them till they fall to shreds. It's amazing how much noise one dry maple leaf can make at 4 a.m.

So here we are, Little Chuck and I, awake too early on a Sunday. After his leaf fun and a nice breakfast of fish oil and four kitten Greenies, he's sitting sweetly on my hands as I attempt to type this letter to you.

Yesterday I caught up on a few harvest chores: cutting bunches of oregano, dill, and thyme for drying; also batches of wheat grass and hydrangeas for winter bouquets. Now they are festooned in the back room, wilting and fragrant. Today I'd like to sow some more fall-crop greens and herbs, though this deepening dry weather is not ideal for seed starting. Altogether, it's not been a great garden year, weather-wise, but I did cut a big batch of chard, the cucumbers are thriving, and oddly the okra looks promising. For dinner I braised chicken thighs in lemon, garlic, red onion, and oregano, then tossed them with cilantro and Thai basil. Alongside we had new potatoes mixed with green beans, a chard tian, and a salad of mixed greens, cucumber, feta, and mint. For dessert: homemade lemon ice cream and local blueberries. Summer food is the best food.

And finally, after weeks spent focusing on other people and other people's writing (and on sorrow, of course), I dug into my own notebook and started messing around with a draft. It was a relief to feel my mind return to its private rehearsal room, playground, empty stage, open field.