Rain is falling. I don't really mind, since by this point in the season precipitation could just as likely be the snow that is, indeed, forecast for later this week. We watered young trees and shrubs reasonably well last week with the accumulated rain as we were storing the rain barrels for winter, but they can only be helped by an additional soaking. Outdoor work is essentially complete -- a feat of forethought we have not so well accomplished in prior years. Tools are stowed. Produce is processed. The chickens have sense enough to remain dry and under cover -- or, if venturing out, do so in response to their own recreational need.
All is quiet. Even the 8-point buck that breakfasted earlier in the prairie near the garden fence has moved back into the woods. Wet oak leaves -- among the last of those still clothing the trees -- shiver in the November wind; red berries shimmer on the shrubs. I have had some office work that had been calling for attention, but I have answered it. Breakfast is passed and lunch remains a distant anticipation. There will be afternoon errands, but they, too, are hours away. My eyes have tired of reading. Even the lone bird perched atop the bare branch at the edge of the woods seems at a loss for how to spend his time.
It's not even winter and already I am restless.
Perhaps like the seasonal wardrobe I've begun switching out in the closet and drawers there is a seasonal imagination that needs switching out as well -- ways to be and be occupied creatively and meaningfully in these gray and chilly months indoors when the field of endeavor is interior to the soul and the seeds nurtured are of a profoundly different sort.
The truth is I rather look forward to these flanneled and afghan-draped days nestled in front of the fire --
--As soon as I manage to shift gears and settle into them.