Wednesday, November 11, 2020

Today will be our last unseasonably warm day: after a bit of rain, we're scheduled to drop back into real November temperatures. The weather has been so alluring, though--windows open, laundry drying on the lines, and all the while leaves falling, falling, falling . . . a faint constant shift and rustle, like the sound of carpenter ants eating a house.

I raked leaves for a while, and then I sat out in the Lane, sewing and squinting in the modest sunshine. Next door, the high school girl crouched on her front stoop and listened to her Zoom class while her old dog snored in the driveway. Little Ruckus sat across from me, perched tidily on his own chair, like we were having a tea party. Chickadees and nuthatches fluttered back and forth to the feeders. Everything was shadowed with gold.

I'll be reading Byron this morning, and working on some editing; later, braising a brisket for dinner; probably checking in with my Chicago son, who is in the throes of Covid/job anxiety. Life is not easy for either of my boys right now.

It will be a good weekend to have another writing retreat. And there are still a couple of spaces open, if you want to join us.

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