It's a dark morning, overcast and cool. I have not mowed grass for days now. I think I may have reached the end of the season, when suddenly the damp sway of green becomes a dear notion of spring, not a beckoning chore. A few autumn mushrooms are springing up in the forest leaf litter. The maples are beginning to redden, and the dahlias and asters are blossoming hysterically.

My little cat and I went for a walk yesterday evening. Everywhere we found signs of deer, most notably in my garden, where they've reduced the kale and chard to bare stems. One deer has taken to lingering close to the house, and she doesn't flinch from her apple eating when I stand close to the window or open the door.

It is impossible to imagine never seeing this autumn again.

Last weekend Tom and I walked along a small city pier. Above us the Casco Bay Bridge rumbled as cars shunted back and forth between Portland and South Portland. Under our feet seawater tumbled and glimmered; the wind whistled in our ears and blew back our coats. Sailboats rocked on their moorings and a jet slid down toward its runway. Everything followed a pattern, except for me.

Perhaps that is the essence of the difficulty: the thought that I have no pattern yet.