Silverlock suckles the blanket, when she grows tired of play. She eats enough; I think it's the equivalent of sucking her thumb. And who can blame her? Only 4 weeks old, and without a mother, except for Max and I.
The air is cool and still and wet with dew. I venture to let Max out on his line, and trust he will have the sense to let me know if he sees the bear. I can see him from the window, anyway. The kitten loves the laptop: it's warm, and it purrs. She burrows under it to suckle.
It was a lovely, lazy weekend. There is a poetry reading tonight, at the Jackson Park Library, off of Ninth Street, in Roanoke. We need rain, but we hardly notice, the days go by in such a bucolic haze. They are complete with fluffy clouds and the bluest of skies.
Here and there, on the mountains, a tree turns colors. The marigolds are gone, but the dahlias have come back, in the coolness of autumn. The hydrangea are as blue as the sky, and the impatiens underneath have spilled over their borders unto the slate of the walk.
The red water pump handle and the red pitchfork tell a tale of what is to come.