I write to the slow whirr of the furnace. It’s cold enough outside that the heat is on, and I’m grateful for it as I write my post in the early hours. I imagine warm air pulsing through the ducts, rising through the registers, making this house comfortable.

The trees are touched by cold, too, the green palette of early October giving way to the russets, golds and oranges of autumn. Orange too are the pumpkins by the door, better preserved in this current chill. Hedges are thinning. Small birds must burrow deeper inside them for warmth.

Soon it will be time to move the plants indoors, to air out the woolens, to make soup. Mornings are dark and evenings are early. The great earth tilts. All we can do is hang on for the ride.