Tonight, after dinner, on the river, there was a heron who flew up from the bank to a branch of a dead hardwood on the other bank, and the setting sun left a blob of pink, a small pool of deep pink, on the river’s surface by Death Bridge––pink in the color of this autumn leaf I found on the ground in my morning walk. There was delicious rain last night. All the plants sending out energy. I have trimmed many branches of shrubs dead from drought, and deadheaded and weeded the crackling brown stems of the flowers. The butterfly weed stays in bloom. I even found one unopened blossom of a cardinal flower, a red bud, unopened, in the black soil of the dry brook. My Charles River Writers Collective began writing here today. A September ritual now, this seventh year. Before they arrived I walked a short walk with Charlie through the wet woods. I was quiet, listening. Soaking up some energy. I cycled like that today: needing replenishment, finding it, spending it, and needing replenishment again. Rosy pink replenishment in the dying leaf and the setting sun.