Autumn moves slowly, which is fine with me. In the woods, the poison ivy flames red against the tree trunks. In our yard, leaves flail and fall and lodge themselves against the fence posts. For some reason, long-dormant potted pepper seeds finally sprout and flower. I may bring the plant in, see if it will bear fruit in January.

As the light fades, we seek body heat, the closeness of each other. (As I write, Copper curls up beside me.) I think, as I walk, about those who once lived more openly on the land, how busy they would be this season, chopping wood, canning fruit, patching cracks.

Here in our suburban haven, I muse about the coming of the cold. So far, so good. Our windows are still open; they don’t yet rattle in the wind. We are suspended in a mellow transition.