The rain begins like prickles on the back of my neck, sweeps like a chill up my spine, and then settles back to a low chatter, hard on the drying leaves.
Reading David Kline
I tried reading Great Possessions
about a month ago, but I couldn’t do it. I thumbed through it, picking essays at random, dabbling in it here and there, but it didn’t work.
This time when I picked it up it immediately took root in me. Reading the winter essays, I pictured myself in an old farmhouse kitchen, my cheeks ruddy from working in the snow. I smelled bread in the oven.
Before, I was driving by his farm at 65 miles an hour – pretty, but not all that interesting. Now I’m walking, and there’s a lot more to see, and a lot more to like.
We’re making a long, slow descent into fall. A little cooler today, a slight drizzle at evening. Muted. The smell of wet pavement, wet leaves. Tomorrow will be still cooler, and again the following day.