The summer ends, and it is time
To face another way. . .

~ Wendell Berry

It’s still dark, but we must go out. Morning has its rituals. But shoes, or slippers in my case, must be slipped on. Sweatshirts. It’s quite damp. The morning train whistles in the distance, once, again, again as it crosses nearby roadways. Noisy birds. Why, why is it suddenly colder? White moon in a blue-dawning sky. It’s colder because fall is coming, summer is leaving. Seasons are not yet comprehended. He frowns. He does not understand. There is a thick mist rising from the river; he thinks this is smoke, that the river is hot, and it’s not hot, but it’s warmer than the air. Soon enough, it’s damp and cold enough to retreat into the house for breakfast without argument. Later, it warms a bit, and I take Charlie out. It’s bright and cheerful now. Especially the meadow with the warmth on my head and all the milkweed pods cracking open to spread their seeds. The wild grapevine leaves are shrivelling in the wetlands. Working at my desk, I am trying to concentrate, but the workers are outside my very window building the deck and enjoying their music and camaraderie very loudly. I sigh. There’s no where else right now to work. We have had an early meeting with the stone mason and our contractor to plan the fireplace––which is a very fun idea on this cool morning. We imagine the hearth and the heat the new fireplace will generate. And Frank is smiling. He has imagined and planned a beautiful revision of these rooms we loved and lost that we will live in again.