Singing in the heaven's silver light.

This morning, as I drank my tea, I heard a sound and looked up to see a skein of geese honking and flying across the sky, heading south, winter unquestionably on its way. Not long after, heading out to market, I stopped to look at the moon, the same texture and color as the thin, high clouds around it, blending the top and bottom parts of the sky.

There were crows calling out while I was at market, and the air when I went out on a bike ride was just warm enough to let me know it'd get cold soon. This past week has been like that: those stunning clear fall days where every glance upward is surprising in how saturated the sky is, and how gorgeous the leaves are. The days are such that they're getting shorter and the light itself is angling more and more, so when it hits the leaves and the grass, everything has a moment of being utterly, completely real in the world.

It's been a long, hard week to be in the world. The coming days won't be easy. But they won't be the days we've been through ever again.

Tonight I've had a large cider and most of a pint of ice cream, and that combined with the last week means I'm about ready to slide into bed.