It is raining now, a strong rain that maybe will give the fall lettuce and kale seed I have planted an incentive to grow. The rain is surrounded by darkness, the darkness comes a little bit earlier each day it seems.
The nighthawks were flying and circling tonight, in loose flocks but with their intentions known: migration. Graceful as swallows, but bigger, and not seen here until their fall migration. It is time. Funny how one minute you're planting, the next minute it's all over.
I think I may have seen a wolf this morning. It was foggy, more like a September morning fog, and I could not see too far up the road, but there was a shadowy large gray figure that trotted off the road a few hundred yards in front of me, didn't bound off the road like a deer, was not black like a bear. The Hermit thought he heard a wolf this morning, not a coyote, so it is probable.
All was still earlier in the light of day, except for the crickets and one complaining nuthatch. It is the time of year when birds are all but invisible.
I hold it close, like I do all of the seasons these days. Every new day is different, each has something to say. The only constant is change; the earth spinning, tilting, traveling. To quote Wendell Berry, only music keeps us here.