Quiet Evening.

Right at the end of the day, we broke out of the gray, and we saw that same light we picked up last evening, except this time on the heels of an all-morning rain and then fog and rain again—I know it was as hot as we've seen it yesterday, and I know it was bad this morning—AMR came back in from her catporchery saying it was like the Everglades out there—but we've tilted, for sure, and the light is April's light again, is leaning back to the horizon, is pulling us even at ninety degrees in the sun or seventy-five in the rain back surely, surely towards autumn, towards long sleeves.

Tonight: chopped tomatoes and half a lime in a bowl. A cold beer. A few chips. The house so quiet the hum of the fridge and the slide of the crickets is about all there is. Out the windows the sky's still lighter than the trees, is that dying purple you really want everybody to love. White mums in a pitcher. Produce in the house. All the rooms dark but for this one. Late summer. Very late. The nights are shortening back up, laying in for the coming frost. Which is not soon. But close one eye, and you can see it. Close the other, and there's at least a month of tomatoes still to come.