On the stark, bare, claw-like limbs of the large locust tree above, a handful of crows had congregated. The sky beyond them could have come right out of a watercolor painting by Andrew Wyeth – the fading charcoal grays of a cloudy, mid-November day, right at dusk.
There have been an awful lot of unpredicted rogue comets entering Earth’s atmosphere lately, first in Russia and then this week in California. Shouldn’t we be taking action? And by “action” I mean placing blame.
Something about September has brought poetry back into my consciousness.
It might be the way the amber, diffused light knocks the sharp edges off of summer’s harsh palette. It could be the rhythmic pulsations of the crickets that seem to serenade just outside every window. Possibly it has to do with the mild temperatures previewing just the slightest hint of the chill that will soon set fireplaces aglow.