There is a chair in my house which commands a view from front to back. It sits next to a brick fireplace which I can adjust without standing if needed. To my left is a small table and lamp. My wife and I received the lamp as a wedding gift. Beyond the table is a chair my wife rarely uses. 
The woodland house rustles awake slowly. A daughter creeps nearby, an encyclopedia of insects in tow. The coffee pot coughs. My toes crack as I read Essays of E.B. White. 


The fireplace is black on the first of September. The first morning I light it, the smoke will remind everyone of winter. Today we will cling to summer. Today the swimming pool will used. And, the seventy degree air temperature will remind us of the recent summer past. I may have a fire outside. The smoke will waft over the water and into the surrounding forest. 


The leaves of the oaks that surround our house remain green but they are wrinkled. Only a few maple leaves have died prematurely. August was harsh. A spoon clacks a porcelain cereal bowl. The encyclopedia is gone. She pours her milk and rips a banana from the bunch. Another daughter flushes a toilet somewhere else. Her bare feet soon swish the hardwood floor. Her chubby hands clutch a tale of winter fairies. 


My coffee mug is cold. Inside are only stains. I smell them and think of how the two children have speechlessly scurried off. Yesterday a squirrel ran from our garage. Our eyes met momentarily. He admitted my claim. 

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