This has been a cruel month. We watch the cindering yellow leaves dissolve into the wire-rabbit fence, and it's cold, the slow-going lava will flow from the Icelandic volcanoes soon and the world gives birth to new abominations, it groans and it churns, the ancient wooden wheels of a mill grind everything into a fine dust, two of my most favorite smells are raw sawdust and wet cedar shavings, as we should be thankful, we should appreciate the little things each day and await the bucket of snow on the front porch, the dog by your gate, the unloved notebook, the arrival of grace, the vast array of wild horses on the far-away plains like tiny figurines, a bruised backdrop and sizzling lightning artery and artwork portrait among the silent rain, a violent storm in a jar.
