Good morning. It's Wednesday, the 17th day of September.
The dawn is misty and quiet and cold for me and my slow-walking dog; entirely TOO cold for a dog with short hair.
From a damp-leafed tree in the woods, one lonely bird sings a song about misery, and we understand how that poor creature feels.
The white moon is pinned overhead, like a crescent of ice.
Our breath adds its steam to the dampness of dawn.
One more chilly morning in a long string of days that have been more like October...
