As we emerged from our small Toyota automobile at the "Under New Management" Japanese and Thai restaurant last night, we walked into a world which had not entirely forgotten Summer, but instead keeps it on the hovering edge of consciousness, like red pansies in bloom in the snow.
The Weather Channel, sage in its advice notwithstanding a fixation on the phrase "the upper Midwest", advises that a cold front, which I imagine would be named Iggy if cold fronts got names in the same way that hurricanes do, is heading our way in a barrel that would make Niagara proud.
Today, though, like a decanted red wine, the air breathes a certain call to home, to hunt, and to harvest. I am not a hunter--other than the platonic searchings of a pleasingly coarsened heart--but I can harvest a hike under awe-struck clouds, and perhaps snap a picture or two. Today I have listened to sound effects at the Freesound Project such as Moroccan farms and sonar pings. I am in a frame of mind for late June in December, just prior to January in December.