I’m grateful we finally got some rain. Yesterday it was overcast all day, drizzled off and on, and the clouds gave a good shower midafternoon. Not enough to make puddles, but enough to make the top layer of clay almost muddy. Little Wren shivered in her Thundershirt and wanted to cuddle all afternoon as I frantically plowed through R.F. Kuang’s surprising, delightful, allegorical, and ultimately very disturbing novel Babel before the digital library reclaimed it today.

I was grateful to wake this morning to sunshine on a cool early autumn landscape with clouds climbing the mountains on their way out of town.

I finally steeled myself to check on the potato harvest in the garden beds, and wasn’t too disappointed. I dug one plant’s yield from each of the small red potatoes and the Yukon golds. The red potato gave a pretty good harvest, and the first gold one did not, so I pulled a second gold and got a sizable handful. Both these potatoes did pretty well considering the grasshopper plague that never let the red ones flower at all, and only allowed a few of the golds to bloom, before demolishing the foliage. I was surprised to dig up what I presume was a skin from the seed potato of the bountiful Yukon gold.

I finally got a good look at the little silver stray that’s been streaking away after only a ghostly glimpse for a couple of months. Or, I think it’s the same cat, a pretty little thing. Topaz was fixated out the window when I walked by and when I stopped to stroke her she growled, but not at me. Only then did I look out and see what she was staring at, and who was staring back at her. It didn’t stay long: I was on my way to let Wren out, and thought it best to get it over with before Topaz wanted out again, to preclude a cat fight. The cat streaked through the fence and left Wren prancing at the gate. I have told Topaz many times since her dear brother’s untimely demise that if she wants another cat she can bring one home, but I guess not this one.

This morning we went for another ramble on soft damp ground through the cool woods, greeting trees we’d not seen for awhile.

We found ourselves at the North Pole, so named the first year I lived here when it designated the northern boundary. I’m grateful I was able to buy the field, forest, and canyon beyond after awhile, so now the North Pole marks the halfway point. We continued on until we came to the Survivor, and sat with her for awhile. She never ceases to amaze me, still living green nearly a century now since she resisted someone’s attempt to cut her up. I always ponder: did she fall over first, or did she get cut first and then fall over? Either way, she’s an inspiration to the power of stoic resistance and determined persistence. All the trees tell stories.

At the base of a decaying trunk, a baby piñon and an even younger juniper grow side by side in harmony.

We follow the course of a natural storm drain to slowly amble home. I’m grateful for the aimless nourishing hour we wandered the woods, remembering again connection, reflecting on those halcyon days when it was all so new. For decades with big dogs it was all new every carefree day. How much has changed, now carrying the weight of the new reich; through a darkening lens, yet still able to see with eyes of wonder so much beauty, and with such sweet, quiet little animal companions. Everything changes.