This morning: dense fog, 35 degrees, and a pitched argument with the cat, who tried to sneak a semi-dead mouse into the house.
It's been a slow week, money-earning-wise, but at least I've been writing. Today I'll bake bread and keep barging forward into my essay. I did finish stacking the new firewood yesterday, well before the rains started, so that's an autumn chore off my mind. We're supposed to get a killing frost on Friday night, and I guess I should plan to spend my Saturday digging up dahlia roots and tearing out dead nasturtiums and marigolds. Good thing my front yard is still decorated with all of that cold-hardy kale.
Covid is spiking again in Maine; and though we are still in far better shape than much of the rest of the country, anxiety is rising. So much pit-of-stomach dread: terror about the election, terror about the virus; and a deep and growing distrust of a large portion of humanity, which has repeatedly revealed itself as both stupid and indifferent.
Stacking firewood, clearing out a garden, kneading bread dough, wiping down counters, sweeping a hearth, making a bed, fluffing a pillow, writing a line.
I embark on my daily rounds. I watch the rain fall. And when a pileated woodpecker lands on my neighbor's walnut tree, I feel as if I've won the lottery.