Early minyan tomorrow

Mishka is dozing in the easy chair nearby.
The first tiniest whiffs of the coming Autumn have drifted by, like light smoke just under the nostrils.
I am enjoying the last Wednesdays of the Farmers' Market. Soon they will be there only on Saturdays, and then not at all until next summer.

Earlier, I got in my car in a driveway, and just waited: a doe and fawn were quietly eating grass, and I did not want to spook them. They passed close to the car on their way to the neighbor's grass next door, slow, relaxed. I experienced that little upwelling of delight that comes with an untame animal going about its life not experiencing me as a threat but merely as another coinhabitant of this world.

I am contemplating the large bag of very ripe tomatoes from the Farmer's Market. I see Shakshuka in my future. Maybe there will be enough sauce to save for when winter has come and I can barely remember the scent of grass in the morning.
These days, the morning routine continues after feeding Mishka and sitting where she indicates to drink my coffee while offering her a lap: I get up at last and irrigate the new tree while I water the plants in the back, the pots in the front. I thank them all for cheering my Spring and Summer, and invite them to last as long as Fall will allow. The shift of season is slow and not obvious, but is nudging me to prepare more consciously for the High Holy Days.

I cannot avoid the enormous presence
of the absence
of the one with whom I shared this season
all the seasons
most deeply.

Good night.