Sitting at the terminal, I’ve begun to hear languages other than English. Children are in love with flight and ask parents which plane is theirs. I flew often when I was a child, flying between the states and Germany. We used to walk out on the tarmac to get into the plane, and I somewhat miss that. The nights before we flew, I could never sleep; and I couldn’t fathom why anyone wouldn’t want to fly as often as they could.
The leaves are just beginning to show color in Vermont. I wrote a little description of it in the novel that I’m writing.
Cooler winds descend from the north and wash the humidity out of the air. The see-saw calling of the chickadees is up and gone. The highway medians, that were riotous with wildflower, have been mown and the wild grasses make no hurry to return. The tassels left standing take from the sun’s yellow decline. If because there aren’t that many choices a tree can make, their colors arrive in a colloquy of disagreement— first to wayward limbs, then by disparate opinion to one tree or another, and then before long by brittle winds descending into the valley’s quiltwork of fields, rivers and towns. Agreement may last just a day or two before a northerly gale sends the season scattering earthward. The vines of the roadside farms lose their vigor, lifting up the fattened pumpkin. Sunning bales of hay dust the air with the odor of their cutting. September is the month for apples, bees that crowd the cider press and the slow procession of stars that visit earlier each evening.
by the airport—seagulls ride the breaking
230: August 18th 2019 | bottlecap