I am wholly me in my sporty red car because the windows are down and the fine gray mist is coming in my window to listen to Orff’s Carmina Burana with me and this is how we say goodbye to the ones we love.
The same greens and reds and browns and golds that sweep the fields and dust the glades now cover the lazy marsh, lazy only because it is early, and the September sun is still warm. Later, when frost dances on the cattails an the marsh begins to freeze, it will be busy with chattering remembrances of autumns past, exchanged stories about where I spent my summer, and regrouping and furious flurries of travel plans. Until that busy crazy chill time, the sun-baked grasses bend and bask in the lazy Indian summer sun.
20 September 1996