Shorter Nights.

The light's gotten all long and thick in the evenings. Surely you've noticed, friends and fans of the coming autumnal equinox. Fall's looming, even as the tropics threaten to submerge your writing shed and mine. It's hot. It's humid. Still, on the drive home from 27244, there was a yellowness, a liquidness, to the failing evening, and I had that sure feeling of flannel and hats and dogwalks and boots. Hell yes, jeans and shirts. The tomatoes are already slowing. I'm ready. Hell yes, scotch and roasted pork.

I drove the truck around town tonight, windows down and dog riding sidesaddle. We were hot. It's August hot in September. We're the both of us ready for our fur to be useful. We're panting. We're ready for those 79-degree highs and 49-degree lows. I'm ready to see my breath. I'm ready for the dog to be ready.

Today was a day of thinking about novels and thinking about teaching writing to 19-year-olds. Today, finally, on balance, was a good day. Came home and the damned beagles were barking across the street. But then they stopped. I had a cocktail and cooked potatoes. Don't know that I could ask for much more than that. Don't know that I should.