A cold front has been
moving in. We have some blue sky. We have some sunlight. There should be a hint of crunchy frost on the grass, frost on the windshield of the pick-up, but there is not. The air is not even so cold as one might have feared. We roll towards winter, but slowly, not the fast ball, a curve ball curving into loveliness.
You can see your breath when you step outside, but if this is cold, bring it on! I have a sports coat, no overcoat. No shivers. Yet. Perhaps later today.
In the country, wind and a grey thickness to the northeast. Birds hold tight to the power lines. The hawk's tree claws the sky. Another field of corn has been taken.
At a driveway there stands a shock of corn, a memory. We don't shock corn any more. We don't have to.
The Perfection of Morning. How does one sing the song of this land, this day, this bluffing and blustering perfect morning?
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