I stood outside for a while this evening, next to our garden, listening. The playful shouts of children leaped across two pastures and hurtled through the woods. A motorcycle chortled down on the road (surely not a Honda). My dog paced in her enclosure, wondering why I wasn’t doing something for her. Toward the airport, ten miles to the north, the whine of a jet’s engine faded in waves. And that was all. The hummingbirds, our hummingbirds, are gone, back to Mexico, and what a trip that must be. Perhaps they’ll tell me about it next March.
Everywhere I look the landscape is browning, in rich hues worthy of a chicken-fried steak. Only evergreen trees, ferns, and moss keep this changeover from becoming a rout. We’re in for six months of Andrew Wyeth weather—all the bones exposed, nothing held back.