This is the time of year when I start to fret about not having enough wood for the winter. The end of August and we seem to have crested the heat inertia hump and finally the hint of a chill is in the air. Just the hint. More of a smell than a feeling on the skin. The way the house seems to breathe as night air makes the white curtains blow out and in, out and in. When they blow out so far I can see outside, I feel exposed. Makes me want to close the windows to keep the curtains down, but I love the dark, starry air too much.
I start to feel like an amphibian in reverse. Slumbering in the summer and awakening in the fall. The cooling air activates something. The piles of wood that seemed such a burden to chop in the heat get restless now in the cooling days. Logs want to be cut. Tubers want to be made into stew and borscht in a crock pot. Canning jars want tomatoes like apples want to be picked.
I thought I caught my older neighbor who lives alone closely watching me play with my children in the yard yesterday. From her window, over the rain puddles in our driveway, across the stacks and piles of wood, I saw her watching. Our eyes met and she smiled and pointed behind me...
A dark, incoming rain squall spread across the evening sky, lit up along the edges with gold and crimson from the setting sun.
There hasn't been thunder.
Just the rain.
And the lake is audible for a mile inland, hushing everyone behind open windows to sleep at night. Large black crickets and hidden frogs chirp and trill lazily. Sparsely. And the air, now in between the height of summer camp fires and first of the cozy autumn wood stoves, smells of pine and earth and water, and the blankets will be just heavy enough. And just warm enough.