|[Oct. 5th, 2009|11:51 pm]
Clear, breezy nights follow still, overcast days. A few deer have visited the block each of the last three nights. I hear their footfalls and the sound of dry oak leaves on the pavement. The last cicadas have fallen silent. This afternoon I saw a single, small golden poppy blooming, mocking the season, but night is all autumn's. There's the smell of wood smoke in the air again, and the bright moon is lighting the windows of dark houses. I'll be awake for hours yet, measuring the long night's passage, seeing Orion climb and begin his descent. Dawn is in no more hurry than I am.
as i said once before (if not more times than that, scatty as i'm getting), posts like this are Chinese poetry to my inner ear.
>There's the smell of wood smoke in the air again, and the bright moon is lighting the windows of dark houses.
the second half of that sentence is beautiful.