The wood guy came by the other day. "I know it's still kinda warm," he said, "but we were in the neighborhood."
I had answered the door in shorts and a t-shirt, and we had some wood left from the spring. We probably wouldn't have a fire for a few more weeks, but the leaves in the woods across the way were tinged with rust and gold, and acorns blanketed the ground beneath the oak. He was there, and the season was changing. "Let's fill the rack up," I agreed.
This morning, the thermostat in the dining room read 63. It was a little chilly even in my flannel and slippers, but I was hesitant to turn the heat on; I knew it would involve switching the vents, closing all the windows, and changing the filter in the air handler. Still, we were going away for the night, and a sitter was staying with Lucy and the cats. We might have bundled up and slept under extra blankets for another night or two, but for her, I made the switch from summer settings to winter. She is coming, and the season is changing.
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