Pre-autumn notes.

[Kai]

I've returned to my roots, or as near as I can be said to have. My ancestors were midwestern farmers, coal miners, business owners, they set themselves deep in the northern prairie. So I've returned, requested and welcomed by my parents for the moment. The time at El Museo was wonderful but there's no work for me right now, none paying anyway.

And I've missed it. I've missed the glacial till, those undulating moraines and drumlins interspersed with deep kettle lakes and shallow streams, topped with pine and maple forests. Standing out on the edge of a dry husk field of maize, this is big sky country, blue to the horizons as if the sky bows around, bigger than the sky I could see so close to the mountains.

I've missed the suck of autumn, every tree a giant straw. One day, all is green, and after the night of the First Frost, the trees, sensing the oncomming cold suck the chloroplasts from the leaves down into the roots, leaving behind the reds golds and browns of accessory pigments. Sometimes so fast you can watch the pull from stem to roots as a tree drains and drops its leaves.

But most of all, I've missed that chill, that dry feeling to the air that burns the lungs so pleasantly, like breathing in a light stimulant. The sort of feeling that makes you say, godDAMN it is nice out, that makes you walk a little faster and smile because no matter how fast you walk you will never feel uncomfortable. The bright, low sun and cool breeze balances.

You can drive down a county road in this weather with the windows down and huff this feeling, the smell of dust and bright sweet near decay, so near in this pre-autumn, a sneeze then from the leftover ragweed, the goldenrods cooling and browning in the fields, the insects rushing to fuck and feed before the next frost. Golden shed pine needles like large snowflakes.

People talk at the local hardware store in hush and you know it's coming, it's nearly here, just wait till tomorrow, and the hills will be on fire.