September, mid afternoon; we hear the constant fluctuation of wasps in the willow arch, hungry and heedless of the hornets that are raiding wasp-grubs.
Leaves are drying, edging into new colour, whispering.
Indoors, every hour is backgrounded in blips. Apple wine, timing its own fermentation, a liquid metronome.
September, first autumn month, the ninth month, the evening: against the dark, logs crackle fierce in the fire pit. Wine sloshes into glasses; a soothing mesmer made. Eyes droop. We stoop to bed hearing ourselves list jobs to be done, plans that slide into dreams of us on our land, and there is music playing and we are laughing (but this is us snoring, by now.)
September dawn, birds’ chorus bursting bright.
Later in the morning, coffee softly drops into a pot.
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