The last Sunday in September

Portland musician's houseThe drive from Portland to Seattle on a Sunday morning in early fall. Fog lifting, leaves changing, the look of the clouds. Later how the fire consolidated down to a few logs glowing red. The pink in the western sky and the feel of the moss on the roof of our chicken coop. Staring deep into the coals as it grew dark, headlights coming up the road, the sound of tires on gravel. The crinkling of the wood burning and the peeping sounds of birds quieting down until it’s just the occasional car passing. How the silence fills that space. Like it was always there, and just given a chance to return to itself.



Categories: Memoir, prose, writing

Tags: , , , , , ,

4 replies

  1. everything is in motion, as it is still.

    Like

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