As I look out the kitchen window while the coffee grinds, it looks like the trees have stepped away from each other, opened a path for my eyes to follow, like a crowd parting for a dignitary to take the stage.
Autumn descended full force here on the farm while we were away.
Now, there is room to see further – the roof of the neighbor’s metal barn, the path to lodge, the pasture slowly edging back to soft brown.
Perhaps this is why I find fall the best season for my writing. The need to mow lessens, the day shortens, and I am given more open vision.
I don’t have a lot to say today – the fatigue of travel and the welcomeness of home with the man I love sleeping upstairs in our bed leaves me full. And full is a harder place for me to write from.
But I see it – the paths between the leaves, the branches of rough-hewn words ready and waiting, where I will breathe them out like the breath of an autumn fire.
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