The sky to the west is kettle-gray. The last leaves on the sugar maple in front of the house are flickering but hanging tight for now. Most of the hickory nuts have fallen, but sometimes I still hear one clatter onto the chicken-house roof. Another couple of months and Orion will be visible when the dogs and I go out for the last walk at night.
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The basil has not yet been blackened by a sharp, cold night. There has not yet been a morning when the dogs and I get our feet wet on frost instead of dew. We lit a fire in the woodstove the other day just because the color of the world outside seemed to demand it, but when the fire went out no one missed it. I have wood to stack and small engines to winterize, but the weather keeps telling me not to hurry, put it off, take it easy, and so I do.
There is still a stand of small, pale blue flowers growing along the fence by the barn. It has been alive with bumblebees of a kind I rarely see, leaner and darker over all than the thumb-size, yellow-banded bumblebees that have worked their way through summer. I can't help thinking that all of them will be dead before long, their queen alone alive in the winter nest.
So we wait, me at the kitchen table, the dogs scanning the deck for chipmunks that scurry and start, overwhelmed by their work in this year of the prodigious hickory harvest. The dogs don't even bother to bark. They simply watch and wait, full of expectation.
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