Autumn

It is autumn. The rains have begun. The dining room roof talks, low voices for drops on the roof, high pings for drops on the vents. The little stove is glowing in the late afternoon, warming one room of the house; we have not yet turned on the heat. The laundry hangs from the rafters. The cat sleeps on her pillow on the stool. There are gold and green decorations in the room, gold and brown tablecloth and napkins. Tonight, we are having lasagna with delicate squash and kale tucked into the layers, along with fresh apple cider. I will bake bread and granola, make yougurt and the last batch of tomato sauce. Outside, we have brought the dining table and benches in, moved the coop to another bed, begun to break down the tomato jungle as green tomatoes bounce onto the ground. Rainbows span the sky as the clouds move in a stiff seabreeze; thunder and dark clouds race along soon after. Autumn.