They call it an hour gained but it all feels irretrievably lost. The Moon near full took precedence. Bluing no evidence there had ever been a summer.   The Dark Hour is the beginning of Winter in my mind. Calendric precision aside, the reversal of time turns my season cold from warm. The jet lag first week of a morning brain dawning in confused ache. The evening commute burned into a night grind of near midnight feel filled with head-on headlights refraction.   October ghosts

The smell of humid soaked cypress and loblolly. A pileated drills. The softwood spine of a hundred-foot pine offers the meal. Threads of...

September offers no immediacy. I am thankful for this truth. This year brings three clear weeks between the end and perceived end of...