Thursday, September 18, 2025, 55.2*, 88% RH, 0646
It looks cold outside. Silver sky, background for green, red, orange, gold leaves. A Barred Owl breaks the silence, unseen. I’ve seen him before not hidden by leaves sitting on a branch, taking flight suddenly, startled by the sliding of the door.
Coffee no longer steaming in a shade of sun cup. Without Soleil's brightness, the stream wears a different shade of green, the same shade of green as the sweatshirt I’m not finding. Perhaps we’ve adjusted to cooler mornings. Sitting at my desk lets me know I haven’t.
Dust looks at me from shelves where I need to put books. A mask required. The tongue drum, heavy in my lap sounds different outside. Perhaps later, after dusting, after books, the notes of Danny Boy, The Last Rose of Summer can ring in the key of D. Silver solidifies above the stream.
Fog changes the view, not the longing.
Photo: LJ Austin
