The battle of the leaves are over, a few hundred pounds of them pulled behind the fence and left to rot. We live on a wood-line, an old windbreak separating farm fields. I still find ancient shotgun shells writhing up from the dirt under the nearest oak tree. I think there must be hundreds of ghost squirrels littered under that tree, too.
I wrapped the last of the tomatoes in newspaper, and stored them in a brown paper bag in the garage. I check them every few days to make sure they haven’t rotted, and I bring the pink ones inside to ripen on the counter. I have two left. I'm hanging on to them like they are the last limes on a sailing ship, adrift at sea. I’m hoping to ward off the scourge of the coming winter, but I know I will fail. The tomatoes will only last a few more days, and I will have fresh-grown tomatoes on my salad in early December. That will be a gift unto itself; a savory memory, a reason to look forward to the seeds of spring.
Freelance work slows down this time of year, too, but writing fills in the dips of time. I’m two-thirds of the way through the first draft of a new novel. I was awakened at 3 o'clock this morning by the scream of one of my characters. Things are working as they should.
I have never had much patience for transitions, but I think I’m getting better at it as I get older.