Dappled yellow leaves on the ground and rainwater gathered on trash can lids pooling in the creases. Back to wearing socks and donning my old sweater, funny things in pockets from forgotten times. Robins tugging worms from the scruffy rise outside our den, the grass the color of the Scottish Highlands, parched golden-brown. A tarp over the tractor and a hole in the ground filled with yard waste. The last weekend of summer doesn’t feel much like summer, it feels decidedly fall.

Night passes slowly into morning and the cat sits on the windowsill watching, herself a dark figure coming in or going out. The tapping of some drip off the gutter’s seam is like time’s metronome slow at first, then hastening. There is so much I will never know. Shooting stars, is all.

Categories: microblogging, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, journal writing, Memoir, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer