The moon is a perfect circle of cream.
In the dark, we walk downtown and leave letters in the mailbox. Through the valley’s mist, house and streetlights glow. November looms. Poet Thomas Hood described November: “No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day.”
The news around us is of two, unrelated homicides, neither far from our house, in our rural state with scant violent crime. In the dark, I bring in an armful of wood and pause for a moment. Across the valley, I see a pair of headlights crest a dark hillside and begin a descent, slow to my eyes through the mist.
Through the house windows, I see my daughters before the wood stove, our walls painted butter-yellow. The crickets are gone. Late fall pushes in. Every year, the darkness enfolds us again, inescapable and mysterious.
Over my shoulder there’s that moon.
9 thoughts on “Fall.”
Right now, it’s the time where we lose so my light every single day! It’s always disorienting.
Agreed — the daylight is incredibly brief. Sigh.
Ah…that wonderful atmosphere!
Autumn is such a complicated atmosphere in New England….
Brett – I’m loving your book! I feel concerned by this latest news – I feel like I know your town now. The moon watches over you.
I’m so happy to hear you like my book. In a way, my book is a kind of love letter to small town Vermont, in (again) all its complicatedness. Always nice to hear from you. 🙂