Starlings in the crabapple trees sing joy into my otherwise quiet world.
I'm looking for my voice. I go walking in woods where I'm sprinkled with gold, every tree a jewel.
The sun is at an angle, always staring me in the face. Storms are pushing wild water up against thresholds. Rustling of leaves, insistent winds. Red sunsets, too early. Crisp dawns with blue skies or dull greyness, later every day.
The cold creeps closer and I'm knitting another scarf. The darkness creeps further into my days and I feast on juicy red apples. I teach myself French, then Russian. I travel by bus and drink wine with my friends. I pray. I dress with care and learn to live my life in months. October smells of wet leaves and pencils.
Almost half a year until spring.
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