I love these mellow gold mornings, when I go outdoors and the air has a bite to it, and the sun is out, and the trees shine with autumn. It seems like the most uncomplicated part of the day; everything is fresh and new. I'm not yet indoors somewhere chipping away at a pile of work. It's just me, my feet, my eyes, my roving mind, and I love taking it in - even if it's a short walk it feels like it takes up more space in time.
At sunset there is wine mixed into the waters of the estuary. The skies fade in a stupor.
Good conversation is nourishing. Not just the usual small talk or discussion of minor practicalities, but meaty rambling conversation on all sorts of topics, over a hearty lunch - a break in the day that stirs up the mind and soul.
Why peck at crumbs when I can feast?
She poses in plaid and jeans on a dusky field, her face framed with faded yellow hair.
In the back room of a storybook house that plays hide and seek among some trees, we talk about stories and poems. In the room the furniture is a hodgepodge of easy chairs, old sofas, and folding chairs that squeak beneath us as we lean forward and make our points; the light is low and warm, and a moth of some sort bangs around against the ceiling before crawling in shame-faced fashion between couch cushions.
I amuse myself thinking of the trees as paintbrushes that have been swirled around in the brown, murky water of the pond.