Woke up in darkness this morning — amazing how much shorter the days can become in only 72 hours. The wind gusts wet leaves across the empty streets, scattering the decaying remains of summer onto pavement glistening under the street lights.
I wish I could nest, right now. Line my above-ground burrow with warm blankets and beloved books and favourite movies, stock my cupboards with sweet teas and savoury breads and chocolates, light candles against the coming long dark before drawing my curtains against the cold and damp. If I had a wood stove or a fireplace, it would be snapping merrily, an iron kettle whistling on the hearth. I would take the hint of the bunnies and squirrels and mice, borrow from the habits of bears and chipmunks and foxes, excusing myself from the falling chill until the return of the sun again. I might poke my nose out for fresh air in February, but that’s the coldest month — just a breath is all I’d need before wrapping myself in another soft sweater and closing my door firmly once again.
Instead, tomorrow I will get up in the darkness and make tea and toast. Dress for the fading temperatures and wet earth. Venture forth into the middle days of autumn, carrying on while the planet spins on its orbit around the sun. And remember the hot days, the marks of which have not yet faded from my skin.