Beautiful in a painting, Soleil veils herself in orange, orange derived from fire. Four years ago in Pennsylvania, the first time I’d seen her so arrayed; the air wore too much perfume. A scent remembered from down drafts, cast iron stoves burning wood that kept us warm other days, other places in Maine. I wore a mask, mowed the field, watched the sky cover itself in pink. We are taught that what burns makes way for new stronger growth. We are taught that ash feeds the land.

    Moving fingers link to link, I keep one hand on the fence making way across the three-foot strip around the corner to blueberry bushes. I wonder how rational is a second gate opening into another falling into boulders space. In the distance two converse: Red-eyed Vireo, Hermit Thrush. Dew sits on the car. Soleil glitters bronze through leaves. Leaves of orange, leaves of red, leaves of purple spatter the canopy like an artist previewing fall, brush in hand to paint all green if dissatisfied.

     ‘Just checking my pocket to make sure no pills fell out of the custard cup. Coffee in a cup, water in a glass, not good things to put in a pocket. Soleil has passed the uppermost part of my window so is not shining into my eyes.

     Steamy windows, an illusion mastered by dew. I don’t hear any birds only Ruger walking across the deck to look toward the pond. Satisfied with his surroundings, he walks down the ramp. I turn on the recorder, leave the door open as I fetch the other two. Zayne waits at the end of the hall needing some mommying. Waits for me to step outside. Did something scare him last night? As he walks about the fenced-in-land he looks frequently to see if I am there.

     Bonum Mane. Augustus coepit. More Latin! Why not! Let’s play! Good morning. August has begun.

     Do the three notice that grass sparsely rooted across the fenced-in land holds drops of water? Do they realize drops are also mirrors? Probably not. Maybe. The stream washed free of green is idle. Where is the Great Blue Heron? Where are the beavers this silver blue morning?

     Diem Natalis. Sol lucet. ‘Just adding a little Latin to see if you’re paying attention. I wish I had studied Latin or Italian or German. I was a secretary before translators were employed. Unless I go back in time, I most likely will not encounter anyone speaking Latin. But, if someone spoke to me in Latin, someone like me who enjoys the sound of words, the mystery, I could find an app to translate that novel way of speaking! If it’s too early for looking up information, the Latin translates: Good morning. The sun shines.

     Soleil lights the sky, shines through blinds. Zayne jumps, runs toward the gate after a touch from water washing the feet of berry bushes. Raspberries, red, black, plump fall into my hand, I place them without ceremony into a teacup (more like a bowl I need to hold with two hands).

     I push the coffee button. Ruger stretches, walks stiffly toward me for kisses; sits on the rug that holds out chenille fingers to grab incoming things. I push aside the linen curtain dirty in places snatching hair as the three pass in and out, slide the door. Ruger carefully steps down. I turn off the AC.  Zsolt and Zayne, eager to see me, listen for the tap of my cane. Only the Red-eyed Vireo has anything to say this gray silk morning.

      Perhaps it left by 11 last night. I didn’t go outside. I had no desire to walk around looking for the thing I couldn’t see, the thing I could only react to. I didn’t even know about it until a friend mentioned there was an alert, urged me to be careful. It felt like someone choking me...the result of smoke coming into Maine, the result of air higher in particulates than originally expected. I wonder if it was the same for the three who didn’t want to stay outside; didn’t want to play. Although the air quality is poor this morning (it’s usually fair, seldom excellent) standing on the deck causes no discomfort. Four birds cast their voices in all directions.

     A chipmunk scolds as we enter morning. If he wants the silence of a Saturday to himself, he should be quiet. I can’t determine from this distance, from a photo, from a video, if that is water Soleil lights, or dirt. It doesn’t move; nothing moves in it. Some unidentified bug with wings flies through my frame, takes in the sun shining on the undetermined. Haven’t seen the buck for days. Dark clouds yesterday, wind. Rain coming toward the coast missed us.

     Even though I had just gotten to sleep, at Zsolt’s persistence I opened my eyes, looked at my watch trying to determine without glasses if the digital dots read 5:36 or 6:36. It wasn’t the first time I’d tried to read my watch, not because of barking. Magnesium is supposed to keep leg cramps from happening.