bottled water

This was my view last Saturday. The tiny slice of lake we could see through the trees from our cabin, covered in a fabulous morning mist. It was one of the best fall-weather days we’ve ever had in the mountains.

Today I am back in my studio, the view ever-familiar, monkshood, hydrangea, and anemone still competing for attention. There is still green to be seen, though browns and grey have begun their slow creep across the landscape. A confused bachelor’s button has sprung up recently and begun to bloom, just below my window.

Last night, the Hunter’s Moon. Huge and round and refusing to be shadowed by earth. Black sky and golden light, twinkling stars and crisp air that smells of autumn. Every time I walk outside I find myself drawing in a huge breath, trying to capture the scent of another season.

Trying, perhaps, to capture all this color, and hold it deep inside so that I might pull out its memory in the grey months ahead. This was all Mother Nature’s idea, you know, to paint the landscape with extra vibrancy in autumn so that we might have that extra quilt to pull up around our shoulders when Old Man Winter comes to stay.

Also last night, the first indoor fire of the season. Books and knitting and wool socks and this ceiling that hems me in just a bit too much.

But I have a good imagination and if I close my eyes, I can always find Orion, waving down at my gypsy spirit.

Holding a place for me outside, beneath my favorite sky.






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