It is morning and I look out through the kitchen window. The window is cobwebbed in the corners, framing the glass which has the visible residue of years old rain drops all over it. Storm maps. Perhaps it should be cleaned, but if we want to see outside, it seems only fair that the outside should be able to see us.
In the distant east, beyond the pines, I see the sun tear open the sky. A warm, bright, wound of light. A fire in heaven that nothing will escape. Even the shadows are for the sun. It doesn’t so much burn away the darkness as it bleeds it away, the way that blood expands on a gauze, moving outwards from orange to pink to white, expanding into the day.
We have spent the last few days in the garden, excavating dead soil, replacing it with rich life-giving loam in which we will plant herbs and vegetables. Our digs become accidentally archeological. We find sections of clay pots, the broken neck of a glass bottle, sea shells, snail shells buried deep underground, some sort of fabric that falls apart in our hands. Yesterday we began to exhume what was once a pond but has become a sort of midden for old pot plants. A shallow grave for plantless roots. A mostly soil filled tarpaulin held down by large pieces of sandstone. Beneath one rock I found a frog, flat and brown and dirty. How long had he been there, this remnant? The water and his kin long since gone. Why does he stay? He seemed to observe me for a moment and then was gone.
All around us the last of the autumn leaves fall. The few remaining maple leaves have turned brown and shriveled on the branches, waiting for the next big wind to carry them to ground. On the footpaths, they are trampled into a fine red dust, like dried blood slowly giving way to the bones of winter.