Hard Cold.

Not a freeze, but something like that this way comes, I do think, soon enough. Truck pulling hard to the left when I hit the brakes. That can't be great. Gotta sell the house. That can't be great. Hey, housing market. Hey, all other markets. I did rake the leaves. That was something. That was something right there.

The dog had a fine day while I raked all forty acres here and then planted curb-appeal pansies and tried to pull the remaining tomato ties off of what seemed like a good idea at the time and now seems like an eyesore addition to the monstrosity that is the front porch. She lay all morning and midday on the deck paws crossed and ears back like fighter jet wings and squinting and chewing the breeze that was bringing in all this chill cold. That dog loves that porch. She'll love the new porch, too, I know. Plus the back deck. Let her live long enough to love them both, O Muse. OK? OK.

Getting empty in here. We've got ourselves a storage unit. De-clutter, the priest says. So we do. He sells the house and I'll pray whatever he needs us to. I do want the new house. I just want this one, too. I want not to move. I want not to do things, and I want to do things. Maybe I'm just all full of want and also all full of odd unexpected satisfactions of certain of those wants. Don't just yet know how to live this way. I shall try to get it figured out. Step one: plant pansies. Do it with the dog overseeing. Then do whatever it is that's next on the list.