I smell hay. I have thoughts of
shirts, of captured and tamed pumpkins on doorsteps and their
undomesticated brethren hidden among thick green prickly-haired
maze-like earth-bound vines. I smell dust in the motionless air in the
top level of the barn, where an old tire tied to a rope swings gently
in the dusty afternoon, and the sunlight cuts diagonally across the
floor, crossing just under the swing, providing possibly the only
if you fall.
I see little ghost figures cut
from the remains
of sheets, tied into the branches of small trees along the road,
around in the too-warm-to-be-October wind. I see gray marble slabs
in a backyard cemetery, and Caribbean-blue-ocean medicine bottles
and refracting the light in the windowsill. I see a forest of trees of
the darkest green there could ever be, running along the length of a
freshly-baled autumn field. I feel the prickly tickle of a single straw
of hay fallen
under my shirt, poking my skin.
I see ruler-straight rows of
in morning "fall in" formation. I see corn stalks cut and tied
together like teepees (so fun for little hands to draw). I see
-- bonfires and "burning out" -- and tiny ashes dancing in the
air above the flames. I see the moon always full, the night sky
cave-black, and I know that if that dark sky could be tasted, it would
be like bitter black gumballs from a gas station gumball machine. I
a scarecrow is on duty somewhere. I know the crows are nervous but not
the geese flying by overhead, each V its own hierarchy of order and
the leader moving the band south for the winter, only to return for the
next passing. I see simultaneously the arrival of yet another season
the legacy of the one just gone. And in all of this, I see September.
And in September, I see Mills.