The lone grebe is back, fishing by himself across the pond. He's a loner. Is he a happy bachelor, or a sad one? I don't know, but he seems content.
The swallows circle, catching mosquitos in the air. They dip, bank and dive, turning on a dime.
Wild turkeys cross the country roads. A flock of seven or eight grazes slowly as cows do: plump, sturdy and social. I'm drawn to them - I want to get out and follow on foot.
The overcast sky is ponderous and oppressive. The reflecting water is not blue, but the color of the mirror it is - dull grey: new steel/car bumper grey. The wind has changed, and blows from an uncommon direction.
One tiny sugar maple has transformed itself into an orange streak among the greens and dull wheat browns.
An old wooden wire spool sits bare and waiting, as if a giant seamstress had dropped it from the heavens while sewing. I'm going to paint it and make it into an outdoor table.
Bones ache and cold seeps up through the floor into my feet. Blankets come out and we walk around the house draped like native Americans.
I haul the window air conditioning unit out by myself. It's filled with spiders, webs and eggs: a perfect home for them. I take a Q-tip, wind it around the lot and drop the whole cotton-candy mess out the open window. I struggle to lift, then carry the heavy contraption, thinking of Atlas holding the earth. A collection of water runs out of it onto the bed.
Going back to close the window, I see a lone, large garden spider hiding flattened in a corner. If I close the window, it will crush her.
I find a pencil to shepherd her out of the jamb. Instead of climbing out the open window, she runs back and forth from one end of the trough to the other. I finally get my tool under the large spider, launch it through the opening and close the window. Fall begins.
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