Old Friend.

Cooler today than they thought it would be, says my money, even if my money never saw a thermometer or a website or the six-o'clock local news. Still: I chose ballcap over watchcap, and though, yeah, it was firmly in the sixties, I could've gotten away with what I would have preferred—and how many times, in any situation, can you say that? The humidity must have been bottomed out in the teens. The breeze was up. Windows-down to and from the puppet show made me happy for long sleeves, for the heat of the engine block leaking through the uninsulated sheet metal. We'll be warm again, surely. We always are. But I'm ready to say that we've rounded the corner, that the window just off the pillow on my side of the upstairs bed stays open until the first freeze, that, friends and fans of weather, we have hit autumn. The critters say it, too: The dog slept last night on the sofa, tail curled over her nose. The squirrels, so ground-bound and gathering last week, seem to be treetopped and insulating now, making ready. The cats do whatever cats do.

Fresh sweet potatoes and fresh garlic tonight, roasted and perfect. Beets. Dark beer. A pork chop. Green onions. October. Holy hell it was a long time coming.