Over the weekend the winds turned and began blowing in off the lake. This cooled things down and made the promise of autumn secure. It also caused waves to crash over the spit of sand that develops each summer at the mouth of the river, eventually sealing it off from the lake, allowing the river to rise and spread out like a happy bubble, a small pond aspiring to bigness. Then, helped by shovels or nature or both, the mouth opens, and the bubble pops. The big pond water swirls out to the lake and is gone.
But over the weekend the river gulped up fresh lake water, soaked up rain, and kept its mouth shut. This morning all that water buried the river's small grassy island and flooded the cranberry bog. In the air was a strong smell of fish.
Throughout the woods there is a fading of green. A red leaf, a trio of pale yellow leaves, a branch of rusting leaves. Ferns that have all summer spread out beneath the pines like a thick coat of green icing have drawn back into curls of cinnamon. The grass browned long ago, during the sereness of August, and although September's rains give it a burst of bright green hope, it won't last. Soon it will be covered with an icy rime.
No longer do our days last forever, and it was dark when I got home from work last night. I switched on the light by the counter and discovered that during my absence a jar of soup had been delivered, enough for a hearty meal. A meal full of carrots, corn, peas, celery, tomato, meatballs, chick peas, pasta, onion, zucchini, and kidney beans.
Last week I picked apples from a tree on my friend's farm. The lower reaches of some trees had been plucked clean by deer, and some trees had just not produced, but there was one tree on the edge of a field full of small, slightly tart, dull red apples streaked with lemon yellow from stem to sepal. On a crisp morning, I filled a plastic bag. Once home I plopped the bag on a shelf on the front porch. Now every time I step through the doorway, I am enveloped by a sharp juicy scent.
About mid-morning the river was flowing in two directions, in and out. In on the south side and out on the north side. The next time I looked, the island was back in plain sight. The water was still. Winds had shifted slightly westerly; apparently the mouth of the river had opened, the pond had drained, returned to normal, returned to river. The long, mossy, grey-green grasses of the island arched up and over and back to the ground. By mid-afternoon there was a hint of shadow, a hint of sun breaking through a deadpan sky.
Before light this morning we started a fire in the woodstove, my dogs and cat and I, because we knew it would be this type of day. A day going nowhere, doing nothing. A day with a strong smell of fish, a trace of wood smoke, a hot bowl of soup, a tart apple, and curls of cinnamon.
But over the weekend the river gulped up fresh lake water, soaked up rain, and kept its mouth shut. This morning all that water buried the river's small grassy island and flooded the cranberry bog. In the air was a strong smell of fish.
Throughout the woods there is a fading of green. A red leaf, a trio of pale yellow leaves, a branch of rusting leaves. Ferns that have all summer spread out beneath the pines like a thick coat of green icing have drawn back into curls of cinnamon. The grass browned long ago, during the sereness of August, and although September's rains give it a burst of bright green hope, it won't last. Soon it will be covered with an icy rime.
No longer do our days last forever, and it was dark when I got home from work last night. I switched on the light by the counter and discovered that during my absence a jar of soup had been delivered, enough for a hearty meal. A meal full of carrots, corn, peas, celery, tomato, meatballs, chick peas, pasta, onion, zucchini, and kidney beans.
Last week I picked apples from a tree on my friend's farm. The lower reaches of some trees had been plucked clean by deer, and some trees had just not produced, but there was one tree on the edge of a field full of small, slightly tart, dull red apples streaked with lemon yellow from stem to sepal. On a crisp morning, I filled a plastic bag. Once home I plopped the bag on a shelf on the front porch. Now every time I step through the doorway, I am enveloped by a sharp juicy scent.
About mid-morning the river was flowing in two directions, in and out. In on the south side and out on the north side. The next time I looked, the island was back in plain sight. The water was still. Winds had shifted slightly westerly; apparently the mouth of the river had opened, the pond had drained, returned to normal, returned to river. The long, mossy, grey-green grasses of the island arched up and over and back to the ground. By mid-afternoon there was a hint of shadow, a hint of sun breaking through a deadpan sky.
Before light this morning we started a fire in the woodstove, my dogs and cat and I, because we knew it would be this type of day. A day going nowhere, doing nothing. A day with a strong smell of fish, a trace of wood smoke, a hot bowl of soup, a tart apple, and curls of cinnamon.
