There we gathered in the patch of sun. The woman, the ancient dog, the stray Tom, the obnoxious gander. The trees were alive with the raucous calling of jays, squabbling of red and grey squirrels and chipmunks, flocks of tiny migratory songbirds. We sat and drank in the warmth of the autumn sun.
The next day, it was the woman, the Tom, and the fearless woodcock.
The latter had arrived several days prior, hanging withing mere feet of the house, well camoflauged in the piles of old leaves where it was poking for worms. Now it sat on the fringe, preening, ruffling feathers, seeking companionship and safety in the lushness it had found amongst the drought.
The maples and sumac are turning red and blaze orange, the sasparilla bright yellow. Oaks are still green and everything is covered in grit from the road dust. We need rain.
