The blue is brushed with streaks of cirrus cloud today, and the Indian Summer warmth is dry and gently breeze-blown. I think of washing hanging on a line. The leaves on a few twigs of the mulberry tree have turned yellow, creating a few bright patches in the still mostly green canopy. Sufficient leaves have fallen and quickly dried to make a satisfying crunch underfoot as I pass along the walkway.
Such days have brought me contentment in the past, but today I project onto it my mood of melancholy. I see the winding down, the decay of all things, and feel a sense of loss and sadness. After napping in the yard for a while, my cat comes indoors for a bit of attention, and curls up in my lap. Her fur is darker than it was when she arrived here almost fifteen years ago. She purrs very softly, and presses one forepaw against my knee rhythmically for a while, then falls into a slow-breathing sleep. She looks very, very old.