A chilly, damp morning.
Blue sky above, yet grey clouds to the west at least. A brisk weekend with sun and a sharpness to the light. My wife told me she saw the hawk eating at the corner of the alfalfa field south of the hawk tree - having at a white bird, a sea gull perhaps. This was last week, I'm not sure which day, what time of day. Did the hawk kill a sea gull or was it scavenging? Does it matter? Well - yes, somehow it matters; yet I suppose it doesn't matter if I know how it matters.
On Saturday we visited my wife's brother and my 15-year-old niece. They had come back to "the farm" in Marquette County for the first time since my sister-in-law's death. The farm is the emotional center for them, their home. They brought back Karen's ashes with them. The remains will be put into our small cemetery there, at the home Karen loved, at peace, out of pain. In the place all of us hope to end up, the farm, at peace, out of pain.
Oh, there are clouds to the east and the south, too, and the sky overhead is closing. There is dew on the windshield of the pick-up, there is a real chill in the air.
Just north of the village, the whiteness of frost layered on a lawn, unmistakable. Farther north, plants look as if they have been nipped considerably. There it is then - the first frost of autumn. The new season hums its song.
At Five Corners I look off to the north-northwest: I see geese, a wave of them.
Where Highway E is torn up, several workmen stand around as if they are thinking about resurfacing the road. Finally. Now, if they'd just get to it!
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