A coolness, this morning, a mistiness. Grey sky. Intense green of lawn and tree deepened, darkened. The sky is parsimonious - only a little spit of rain on the windshield as I head north out of the village. In the small orchard at Weinkauf's, the trees are heavy with apples. The season for the apple's pungent musk is approaching. A coon is dead at the edge of the road, punctuation in our sentence, in our lives. Another field of sweet corn has been taken, near the power pole where the snowy owl perched the season he visited us. The house south of Grace Lutheran in Ripon - now beams and trusses are starting to give its roof some shape. House by house, away runs the wildness.
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