Michael Ast

September morning walk. Not enough sleep. I could blame Little Edie and her melancholic dance, but I won’t. A pained fade to black. A wrong choice before bed. We should have slept with the windows open.

These winds. Behind them Autumn drags her loose gown over the dry ground. I’m beginning to feel her critique. Last night in the twilight, I photographed bats from our plastic Adirondack chairs. A futile attempt. As usual, though, failure’s often my preference of success.

A man in bed clothes grabs his newspaper at the end of the drive, never stepping off his golf cart. I lose myself in the minutiae. I pass Shantz farm falling down. I find many golf balls beside the creek. It’d be my luck to get struck by one. I pick a few up for the kids.

Back on Spinnerstown Road I find myself saying prayers for the wooly bear caterpillars crossing the road. Indian Summer moths. I toss one into the soybean edge. More fleeting thoughts. I pull my Homburg hat down tighter, shielding the sun under wool brim. Sunday takes shape.